Spare the rod, spoil the child
by rozzy07
Summary: WeeWinchester, dealing with Sam's induction into the scary world of what makes up his family post 'A Very Supernatural Christmas'. Angst and whumpage to follow for the Winchester as mistakes are made and the consequences faced!
1. Chapter 1

Usual disclaimers apply. This is a loose follow-up to 'A Very Supernatural Christmas'. This story will involve religious overtones, bad language and WeeWinchester whumpage in later chapters! Feedback as always warmly welcomed.

_Also big, big thanks to my incredibly gifted Beta, Carocali, who has the patience of a saint in tackling the confusing mess that is my mind at work! That being said I still managed to fiddle with the opening of this chapter so my apologies to Carocali but I was too impatient to send it back to her to work her magic and smooth away all those pesky mistakes I seem (sic) infamous for!!_

**SPARE THE ROD, SPOIL THE CHILD.**

**Chapter 1 Family history**

John looked at the pathetic remnants of a Christmas tree tilting lopsided in the corner of the shabby motel room and his forehead creased in disbelief. _'Holy shit!_ _Is it really that time of year already?'_

Rubbing a calloused hand over too long stubble, he mentally counted back the days in his head and a groan escaped. Despite all his promises to do otherwise, he'd once again left his boys high and dry when it came to any type of season cheer or interaction. Christmas had come and gone three days ago.

Dropping his bag of dirty clothes on the floor by the first empty bed - Dean's by the look of the mess - he sat down and tried to think of a reasonable excuse to give them. They didn't expect much of him, just for him to be there for one day of the year and he couldn't even give them that. Hadn't, in fact, managed to do that for the last few years it seemed.

Recalling a time when Christmas had meant so much to him - to his beloved Mary - his eyes stung at the memory. Before the fire, there'd been happier times when presents lay welcoming under an ornately decorated tree and the sound of a child's laughter filled the house in excitement before the tearing frenzy of opening gifts began. Now, that day was a hollow reminder of what he and Dean had lost, and what his baby boy Sammy had never known.

Thinking on his youngest, his lips thinned in regret. He knew Sam had given up on Christmas after his first year at school. Innocently believing the hype; that if he was a good kid, a special present from Santa would magically appear Christmas morning for him to open. When that didn't happen, he knew better than to believe in it again. Sam had always been a fast learner.

John knew he should have done something about it that year, listened to Dean's endless nagging not to forget to get something for the boy. Hell, even a 50-cent coloring book would have done the trick, but he had forgotten too wrapped in research to give it any weight. Still it had near broke his heart when his baby boy looked at him, tears falling in confusion and regret, as he asked if Santa hadn't come because he was bad?

After that, the magic was lost on his youngest, and though he might ask at times for the odd comic book or second-hand book in the end-of-bin sale, Christmas was a topic he never raised again.

John sourly sucked in an unhappy breath at the memory, 'Ah man just for one freaking day of the year why couldn't I put my boys first?"

Once again he looked at the forlorn tree shed bare of all its needles. It pricked away at his conscience as a reminder of what he had missed out with his boys again. Unable to bear the sight of it any longer he wanted rid of it and it took just four long strides to reach it, pick it up, and ten more strides to march it outside and drop it up against an overflowing dumpster.

As he walked back to the room he hoped it would be a case of 'out of sight, out of mind' for both him and his boys of his bad parent status. Maybe next year he could make it up to them. Make the day special again.

Half way back to the room he caught sight of his boys turning the corner, take-out in their hands and his mouth went dry wondering how to greet them after missing out on the seasonal festivities once again.

Dean though caught sight of him before he could get his tongue off the roof of his mouth and threw him a bright smile in greeting, "Hey dad, good to see you back. You finish the job okay?"

"Yeah," answered John, looking for some welcome from Sam but saw only hesitancy in his eyes. "You boys doing okay?"

"We're fine," answered Dean for the both of them as they headed back inside. "Sorry, didn't expect you back. Wanna share my quarter-pounder and fries?"

John just shrugged a denial, having already eaten in a rundown diner an hour ago. He looked back at Sam wondering what was going on in his head to keep his tongue so unnaturally still but his boy kept his head ducked low, his gaze anywhere but on him.

Dean stalled in the doorway his eyes narrowing on noticing that his adeptly acquired Christmas tree was now gone. Huffing out his annoyance he muttered sourly, "Guess the holiday season is definitely at an end seeing how the tree's gone to the great paper sanctuary in the sky …"

John sucked back a response, too tired to want to banter words with his eldest and risk alienating him further. Instead he watched as Sam sidled past him into the room, noting how he didn't even bother glancing at the now empty corner of the room; as if the tree really had no meaning to him, like it had for Dean.

John felt more than a little redundant as his boys shrugged out of their jackets and sat on their respective beds to eat. He found himself asking, "So you guys stay out of trouble when I was away?"

"Yes Sir," voiced both his sons without adding anything else.

John turned his attention to Dean wanting to ask more detailed questions but his eyes widened in surprise at catching sight of the golden amulet around his neck.

"Santa came after all I see then," remarked John sarcastically, fully aware that Bobby had given it to Sam to give to him.

Dean gave up a hollow laugh, catching his brother's eye before he answered, "Fairs fair dad. I gave Sammy his heart's desire, a Malibu Barbie, and he gave me this."

Sam snorted back his disgust but held his tongue, and John knew better than to ask anything more about the exchange of gifts that had taken place in his absence. Still, as he eyed the necklace, the sting of rejection from his youngest surprisingly rankled.

He guessed he deserved it, being sidelined like this, as the boys would always look out for each other first. It was what he expected of them, after all.

Trying to mask his hurt, John switched his attention to the question that had been nagging at him on the long drive back, "Dean, you seen my journal? I thought I'd packed it but the damn thing has gone awol."

Dean paused in mid-bite of his burger and John once again couldn't ignore the look he threw his brother's way. As for Sam, the boy hadn't even started on his food. Something definitely was up and he was forced to ask, "Sam, you know anything about this?"

John watched open mouth as Sam reluctantly reached from under his pillow and handed him back his journal offering up a simple explanation, "I know Sir."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? You know what exactly?" demanded John, snatching back his journal.

Sam felt his cheeks coloring under his dad's questioning stare, "The truth."

John shook his head in denial. The fact that Sam had taken his journal meant the end of any pretence of normal and he felt the flutter of panic beat in his chest. Turning to Dean he demanded, "What the hell were you playing at letting him take this?"

"I didn't. He snaked it out of your bag without me knowing," responded Dean, throwing a daggered look at his brother, distancing himself from the crime.

"You had no right to touch this," snapped back John flicking anxiously through to the back of the journal to make sure everything was still there.

His fingers lingered on the few photos left of Mary, relief at having them back counterbalanced by his growing temper with his son. "I ought to tan your back side with the leather of my belt."

"Come on Dad he didn't do any damage," interjected Dean, afraid that his dad in his temper would follow through with his threat.

"Don't Dad me," snarled John in return, dark with anger as he turned back to his youngest and yanked him to his feet by the front of his shirt, "You ever touch my stuff again you won't sit down for a month. You hear me boy?"

Sam swallowed back his fear and blinked back the threat of tears. "I'm sorry sir."

"You don't know the meaning of sorry," spat back John, shaking Sam with enough force to clack his teeth together. "I could throttle you for all the worry you put me through thinking it was lost."

Fear drove Dean to his feet, that his dad's temper would make him do something beyond just manhandling his brother, "Stop it Dad, what's done is done."

John heard Dean's plea, felt him tug on his arm and he let go of his youngest child with a small shove, suddenly afraid of what his anger might do if he held him any longer.

Dean had taken up a protective stance in front of his brother and John could see real panic in his son's eyes. Looking over his shoulder worse though was the fear radiating from his youngest. Fear of him.

Instantly John's temper fizzled out to be replaced with instant remorse, appalled at how come close he had come to laying hands on his youngest and he weakly protested, "Goddamit to hell .. the kid never make things easy for himself? Who does he think he is pulling a stunt like this on me?"

Dean let out a shaken breath as his dad slowly calmed down, all the while left wondering what he would have done if he had actually struck his brother. Dad was intimidating at the best of times but when his temper sky rocketed like it just had he was simply terrifying. So much that his knees felt like jelly and he could only guess at what his brother was feeling right now. _Scared shitless no doubt_.

Daring a look at his brother he whispered softly, "You okay?"

A mute nod was his answer as Sam struggled to keep his tears from flowing. Trembling he sat down on the bed, hunching into himself, as if to make himself invisible and untouchable from his dad's fury.

John heard Dean's question and stopped his pacing as the chill of disbelief swept over him. He had come close to hitting his boy, not because he had dared find out the truth of his dark world of hunting but because he had kept from him the precious mementos held inside the journal.

Sinking onto the tatty sofa John shook his head, tiredness hitting him hard as the anger drained out of him. He pulled out a bottle of bourbon from his holdall and took a long slug before swivelling around to face his youngest. "You know this changes everything, that there's no going back now son."

Sam lifted his head and dared to look him in the eye, a mixture of defiance and fear on his face. "Yes Sir. I know."

John recorked the bottle and slipped it back into his bag. "You think you _know_ but let me tell you boy you've only scraped the tip of the iceberg. Remind yourself down the line that you forced this on yourself. From now on no more kid gloves, you get with the programme double quick speed."

Dean closed his eyes in defeat on hearing his Dad's words. The lies they had weaved around Sam to keep him safe were well and truly gone. Sighing he knew that whatever made up normal in their lives was well and truly over and done with.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

_4 months later – downtown Detroit._

Thankful that it was the end of the week and the start of spring break, Sam snatched up his backpack and headed out of the classroom, determined to get out of Mrs. Swanson's eye line. He had seen her looking his way before the bell rung and he hurried away, anxious to avoid questions that he had no truthful answers to.

As he walked down the corridor, Sam's face screwed up in annoyance thinking sourly on the stupid 'Family History' project his teacher had assigned the class. It could go screw itself, along with his perfect grade.

There was about as much chance of finding a snowball in hell than him finishing the project with any degree of truth. After all, his family's past was a taboo subject in the Winchester household.

Any doubts he might have had about just how off limits the past was had been made crystal clear last Christmas by his brother. He had asked one question to many about mom and it had triggered a reaction from Dean that still made Sam feel sick to the stomach.

Even now he wondered what might have happened if Dean hadn't taken off for the rest of the day to cool off, and guessed he had missed a thump or two by the smallest of margins.

So, no, he wasn't in any hurry to ask any more questions about _his_ family any time soon. Especially when Dean had told him that he had no right whatsoever to ask about the woman with the beautiful smile that he only knew ever existed from a few faded photographs.

Dad too had made it clear that whatever was in the journal was off limits, rattling the bones in his body for touching it in the first place.

Sometimes, Sam wished that he had never given into temptation and left the damn journal well alone. But that would have been the coward's way out, and his brother hadn't raised him to be a coward.

It wasn't as if he could ignore the fact their lives were in anyway normal. That

The facts had spoken for themselves. That their lives were more than downright quirky strange at times, especially when Dad's so-called travelling salesman job had him coming home battered and bloodied more often than not.

And how on earth could it be considered normal the discipline of leaving lines of salt on window ledges and in doorways?

Sam smirked to himself at the memory of the first time he asked why they did that chore so religiously, chuckling softly at his brother's throwaway remark that it was to keep killer slugs from sliming him to death in his sleep.

_Killer slugs his ass_! Dean really did know how to yank his chain at times and have fun at his expense.

For Sam the reality was that by the time he was seven he had already worked out in his own head what his dad really did. Besides he had ears that took in conversations at night between his dad and brother that seeped through paper-thin walls. Their words were enough at times to make his blood run cold and fuel his nightmares for nights on end.

Still the hardest part in knowing all of this had been to play dumb. Each morning he'd wake up wondering if this was the day his dad would sit him down to have that 'little talk' about what he really did. In the end he had to take things into his own hands, take his Dad's stupid journal and expose the truth as the lies were starting to make him look stupid. And stupid was something Sam Winchester never did well.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

With his thoughts swirling in his head, Sam stepped outside of the dilapidated concrete building into the still-chilly spring air and he instinctively zipped up his jacket to offset the cold.

Remembering the first time he had fired a gun he wondered just how many other eight year old dads gave them a .45 to deal with the spook that had taken up resident in his closet. _Not many I bet_.

Sam shuddered at the memory before taking a long breath, schooled his face into neutral, and put his thoughts on the back burner, knowing that his focus had to be on the late afternoon training program his brother would have planned for him. Again.

Ignoring the unwanted jostles from the flood of exiting students, Sam stood firm and scanned the street ahead for signs of his brother. When there were none, a small smile ghosted across his face guessing that Dean would be late again, no doubt a little preoccupied in sucking off the face of his latest girlfriend.

Deep down, Sam was pleased that his big brother was doing something as ordinary as sneaking the odd fifteen minutes to hook up with some girl after school. It was akin to his big brother enacting a mini rebellion against their Dad's endless list of rules and regulations, and he couldn't help but secretly admire him for it.

It helped keep his mouth shut about Dean's extra curricular activities when dad was around, because he guessed if he ever found out, he would put a stop to it so fast he reckoned his brother would end up with whiplash.

"Hey Sam…" a voice called out.

Breaking out of his reverie, Sam whipped his head around to see his friend Colin sidling up to him. "Wanna head off to soccer practice? The coach would love you to take it up again, said you were a natural. My mom could drop you off home later."

A sad smile flashed across Sam's face knowing that since his Dad had found out that he had read his journal, the kid gloves had come off, and all after school activities had gradually been dumped to be replaced with weapons training and the learning of dead languages.

Offering his friend a hapless shrug Sam said, "Sorry I can't, Col, my brother will be here soon and we've got things to do."

Colin swallowed back his disappointment. "Well, don't forget to ask your Dad if you can come to the fair on Wednesday."

"I'll ask him tonight," lied Sam, knowing full well that his own Dad's plans for him didn't involve anything as childish going to the county fair.

"Great, see ya on Wednesday, Sam," beamed back Colin.

"Sure," answered Sam trying to quell the twinge of jealousy at seeing the carefree smile on his friend's face as he headed off to meet his mom at the foot of the stairs. "Bye, Colin."

The smaller boy threw him a final grin over his shoulder. "Maybe if we eat enough hotdogs and candy we can puke up on the rollercoaster in style! It will be totally gross, dude."

"Yeah, totally gross," murmured Sam softly, all the while wondering if by the end of the school holiday they would have moved them on again, and if this would be the last time he would see his friend. "See ya later."

After waiting for the crowd to thin out, Sam traipsed down to the bottom step and sat down. He pulled out his dog-eared book to wile away the time before his escort home arrived.

The mere fact that he needed an escort still rankled with him. By the time Dean was eight he had been allowed out on his own to do all sorts of stuff but still his Dad wouldn't even let him to walk the few blocks home from school. It just sucked at times to the baby of the family.

Dad's attitude was a total contradiction to him, one moment telling him he had to grow up and learn all about hunting and then in the next breath telling him he was too young to even dare put a toe outside of the door without his permanent shadow of big brother by his side.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

Watching as the long hand on the clock reach the top of the hour, Dean snarled out his relief, "Finally!"

Scooping his books and pens into his bag in a broad sweep, he quickly stood up, daring his teacher to challenge him again. He was done with freaking Math detention and Mr. Booker and his need to stick to the archaic school rules. It had meant he couldn't hook up with Sophie after the last period and worse that he had left Sammy hanging around far too long on his own.

The bespectacled slightly built teacher hissed out his own frustration at seeing his bright-but-lazy student readying to leave. "Winchester, make sure that after the break you come back with a better attitude or I might be seeing a whole lot more of you than either of us would like to, if you get my drift."

"Yeah, whatever!" mouthed back Dean sweeping past his clearly exasperated teacher with a telling sneer on his face.

The truth was homework just didn't register high enough on his list of things to do. Most nights, he had his hands full in just looking after Sam, keeping up with their training schedule and doing research for Dad's next gig. So, yeah, math homework and whatever else the school expected of him stayed decidedly low on his list of priorities.

Now, his only priority, as he dashed out of the school grounds, was on hot-legging it back to his brother, praying that he wouldn't make real the threat to walk home on his own a reality. Not today, at least.

As he ran at full throttle the two blocks to Sam's school, he knew that if his Dad ever found that he had been slacking off in looking after his brother he would enact some sort of ritualistic killing on his sorry ass. After all, it was his responsibility at the end of the day to make sure that the little runt stayed safe.

"Sammy, you little squirt," Dean muttered under his breath as his long stride tore up the pavement. "You better have not left without me, dude, or where both gonna be in the dog house."

Silently, he offered up a prayer to whatever deity that might be listening that his brother had enough sense and fear of Dad's commands not to do something as reckless as to tackle the walk home on his own.

The back streets of downtown Detroit weren't safe at the best of times, but for a naïve eight-year-old boy like Sam to attempt that just scared the crap out of Dean.

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

Sam sat on the bottom step corner, trying his best to remain invisible as the afternoon wore on. Elbows on his knees, his hands cupped his chin, he huffed out a resigned sigh, still irritated that he was still thought too young to walk the few short backs to their apartment. Wasn't as if he didn't know to keep to the main streets and avoid the alleyways, or to ignore nut-jobs and stray mangy dogs that might want to chew down on him.

Daring another glance down the empty street, he guessed that something even more important than Soapy Sophie had cropped up for Dean; more than likely another detention.

Resigning himself to a longer wait than usual, Sam picked up his book again, a long held favourite read, and slowly the world of the _Little Grey Men_ took his attention away from his missing brother, and the minutes ticked away unnoticed.

It wasn't until a feminine pair of legs blocked his light and he glanced upwards to see the six-month pregnant Mrs. Swanson staring down at him, that he realised just how much time had passed. The sun had dipped low in the sky and he guessed it had to be a good hour that he had been left sitting on the steps.

"Sam, I take it that brother of yours is running late again?" queried the teacher, her normally easy going demeanour marred by a concerned frown on her face. "This really is becoming a bit of a habit, isn't it?"

Playing for time, Sam carefully folded down the corner of the page before closing the book and lied. "Dean said something about running an errand and that I might have to wait a bit. He should be here soon though Miss."

Mrs. Swanson pursed her lips, not happy to leave the boy unattended any longer, "Come on, Sam its cold and it's getting late. You'll have to wait for your brother in the school office."

Sam nodded before swallowing back his own unease, aware that he couldn't argue with his teacher without raising her suspicions. He allowed himself to be pulled upright but quickly took his hand away on standing. Dean after all would think him such a girl if he caught him holding hands with his teacher.

As he was ushered back inside, Mrs. Swanson started up with the dreaded questions that he had been trying to avoid all week long. "Well, Sam did you chat with your parents about the Family Tree project like I asked?"

Mutely, Sam shook his head, eyes fixed on the floor as he was led towards the school office, silently cursing his Dad and brother for not letting him walk home on his own like some of his classmates did.

Not expecting such a negative reaction, Mrs. Swanson tried again to garner some enthusiasm from him. "You know, some of my previous students discovered some famous people to brag about in their family history. Some were inventors, actors and even daredevil stunt riders. It can be a real buzz tracing your family roots."

"I bet…" murmured back Sam flatly.

Mrs. Swanson frowned again, surprised at his tone. "Trust me it can, especially if you have any old family letters and photographs to sort your way through. When my grandmother passed, we found a trunk load of stuff in the attic. I discovered that my great-grandfather stowed way on ship from Scotland to come to America – how exciting is that?"

She waited for a flicker of interest from Sam but his face remained unreadable. But she wasn't one to give up easy and continued. "Seems that later, my great-grandfather Jebediah Entwistle became a horse wrangler, breaking in wild mustangs for a living. In some of the photographs, he looked just like one of those Wild West cowboys you see in the Westerns."

"Sounds like he was a real cool dude…" agreed Sam, wishing that his family tree could be so readily available to him.

"Well, he fired up my imagination," answered his teacher with a happy smile. "Maybe when you talk to your parents, you'll hear some great stories too. Perhaps you and your mom could start a timeline using some old family photographs and letters. If you like, I could call her and help give her some pointers on where to start."

Sam drew to a halt, shaking his head. "No don't, you can't. It's just Dad and my brother. Mom died in a fire when I was a baby."

Mrs. Swanson felt her heart flutter on hearing his confession and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sam…I really didn't know about your mom."

Throwing a measured look at his teacher Sam admitted, "You see that's why I can't do this project for you, Mrs. Swanson. There aren't any boxes in any attics lying around for me to go through."

Mrs. Swanson sucked in a guilty breath, finally appreciating his reluctance all week to participate in class. "Maybe if I had a little chat with your Dad, we can see a way round this for you?"

"No, please don't. It will just make him sad. It makes them both sad," pleaded Sam, his face coloring in anxiety.

Before Mrs. Swanson could respond, a loud voice boomed down the corridor, "Sammy! There the hell you are!"

Sam turned at his brother's voice, not sure if he was relieved at making his escape from Mrs. Swanson when he caught the fury in his brother's eyes.

"Hey, Dean."

"You scared the crap out of me," returned Dean. "Thought that you'd gone off and done something dumb like walking home alone."

"Excuse me, young man, but the only dumb thing Sam has done is sit outside in the cold for so long," interjected Mrs. Swanson, bristling at the older Winchester boy's brusque demeanour. "You do realise that your brother has been waiting over an hour now for you to make an appearance."

Dean flipped on the charm and threw his patented smile, guaranteed to melt even the steeliest of hearts. "Sorry, ma'am, found myself with an unexpected problem at school myself today and couldn't get away."

"Yeah, I can guess why," muttered Sam discretely under his breath, wondering what his brother's latest detention had been for.

Despite her initial anger with the older boy, Mrs. Swanson felt her guard lowering under the winning smile aimed in her direction, "Well, just make sure these so-called problems are fixed by the time you come back after the holidays. Seems that you're late picking up your brother most days."

Dean threw his brother a furious look and mouthed the word 'snitch' but when he turned back to Mrs. Swanson, he was all smiles again. "Don't worry, I'll make sure I'm on time in the future. I promise."

Mrs. Swanson relaxed slightly but added a soft warning, "Let's hope so or I may have to talk to your father about making alternative arrangements for your brother at the end of the school day."

"Yes, Ma'am," agreed Dean before grabbing his brother's arm and making a hurried dash for the exit.

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

He hated it when his brother was mad at him, especially when it wasn't his fault. Loping after Dean, more at a jog than a walk, Sam tried to reason with him. "What was I supposed to do? Not as if I could have told my teacher to get lost because you were late."

"Why do you always have to play the teacher's pet?" growled back Dean, trying to deflect his own guilt at not being there for his brother. "All you had to do was just keep your head ducked low and you couldn't even do that right."

Sam slowed up and muttered back sarcastically under his breath. "It's not my fault I've got an idiot for a brother."

Spinning around, Dean pinned him with a withering look. "Me, the idiot? You've got shit for brains and about as much sense to match if you think Dad isn't going to ground our butts if Mrs. Goody-Two-Shoes calls him. You know we have to fly under the radar, it's what he expects of us, you little twerp."

"So, it's my fault you got a freaking detention?" growled back Sam, not willing to take the blame for something beyond his control. "You know, if you had just backed me up with dad in letting me walk a few crummy blocks home on my own then Mrs. Swanson wouldn't have a reason to get her panties in a twist."

"Oh, that would be fun to see!" snapped back Dean, his anger energized more by his own annoyance with himself and he found himself blurting out hotly, "You're just stupid enough to fall down the first open manhole you come across and get eaten up by an alligator."

Blinking back his hurt Sam voiced a denial, "Now whose stupid much? There's no such _thing_ as alligators in the sewers."

"Yeah, there are, and they've all got a taste for wet-behind-the-ears freakoids named Sammy," smirked Dean before giving vent to his frustrations by giving his brother a shove that staggered him backwards a few steps.

"You're such a jerk," snapped back Sam unable to disguise the pain he felt at his brother's cruel jibes. "A big, mean, ugly frigging jerk."

"Yeah, and your just a little she-bitch whose getting on my last nerve," growled Dean in warning. "It's bad enough I have to nursemaid your stupid ass twenty four-seven but if I have to listen your pathetic whining too, I swear I'm gonna swing for you one day soon."

Dean saw his brother's eyes go large under his attack and regret kicked in, forcing him to spin away, needing some distance from him before he said something even more hurtful.

As Dean power-walked away, he could admit to himself that none of what happened today had been down to anything Sam had done. He was just too easy a target at times when the world seemed intent on suffocating the last drop of freedom out of him.

God knew he'd die first rather than let any harm come to his little brother. Dad's command to keep him safe had been burned like a tattoo into every fibre in his body, but did that really mean he couldn't have a life of his own? Not even one measly hour a day?

Realising that his brother had gone too silent, Dean looked over his shoulder to make sure that he was following and felt the guilt building up again. Head bowed, Sammy seemed unnaturally heavy-footed as he trailed behind him, no doubt smarting at being at the sharp end of his tongue once again.

Remorse melted away Dean's inner rage and he slowed his step, hoping his brother would catch him up in time and maybe he would have a chance to say sorry in the usual Winchester round about way.

Sam for his part sucked in a tremulous breath as he watched his brother's retreating back, left wondering why yet again he'd blown up at him like that.

Lately, he couldn't say a thing right to him without getting either the disdainful rolling of the eyes or some biting put down marking his status as a third-rate Winchester. Things were bad enough having his Dad tell him time and time again how slow and stupid he was but to have his brother thinking the same hurt ten times worse.

"Go on, you dumb ass, prove your brother right," he admonished himself as a tear dared to escape, "Show him just how weak and stupid you are, crying like a some pansy sissy girl."

Determinedly, he drew the cuff of his sleeve across his face getting rid of the evidence as quickly as he could. He didn't know why his brother's outburst had upset him so badly. After all, he had heard far worse from his Dad lately, but it had touched a raw nerve that just throbbed inside of him.

**o0o0o0o0o**

"Heads up, dude. Come and get it before it gets cold," called Dean out from the kitchen. He was trying to make up for his fit of temper earlier by serving up spaghetti, a staple favourite of his little brother, but it didn't seem to be working as Sam was yet to make an appearance.

Unable to mask his irritation, Dean called out again, "Get your ass in here, Sam. Now."

Sam appeared a few seconds later as commanded and sat down at the small rickety table without a word his eyes unreadable under the heavy curtain of brown hair.

Dean squashed down his disappointment that he didn't get the familiar flash of dimples from Sam at seeing his favorite food and instead started to eat. As the seconds ticked by, Dean's eyes kept darting back to his brother expectantly, hoping that at some point that the pasta would work its usual magic and offset the damage done earlier by his hurtful words.

After a few minutes of painful silence, noting how little his brother was actually eating, Dean could stand it no longer. "Come on, dude, you seriously gonna give me the silent treatment all night long? Not as if I haven't said half the stuff I said to you today before is it?"

There was a barely visible shrug of the shoulders from Sam in response to his question and Dean knew that not even a bowl of pasta was going to undo the damage done by his sharp words of earlier. Sometimes, not even food was the be-all cure that he hoped it to be.

Drinking in long steadying breaths, Dean's fingers found their way to rest on the comforting presence of the solid-gold weight hanging around his neck. The amulet was now such a familiar weight he found it hard to recall never having it there.

It had been given to him by Sam as an expression of his faith in him, acknowledging the belief that he was the only one he fully trusted in his life. Lately though, Dean knew that his only reward for the gift was to keep on tearing strips off him as his inner frustrations kept swimming to the surface.

His heart ached suddenly with a need to have that trust back, to witness back in his brother's too expressive eyes. "Come on, kiddo you really never going to speak to me again all because I had a little bitch fest at you? It's what idiot big brother do… right?"

Again, the small shrug of shoulders from Sam was his answer. "I get why you're pissed at me. I shouldn't have taken it out on you 'cos of some stupid detention or because your sour-faced teacher put me on the spot like that."

Slowly, Sam looked up guardedly through his bangs and mutely nodded his agreement.

Dean swallowed back a sigh of relief at his brother's response. "So we cool again, Sammy?"

On hearing his name drawled out in affection, Sam quickly capitulated, relief flooding through him that his brother was no longer mad at him. "Yeah, we're cool."

Dean grinned back happy at the truce, and started to eat again whilst Sam's smile faltered as he offered up his own apology. "I'm…um sorry, too. That I got you all mad again Dean, I didn't mean too."

Guilt dampened his appetite and Dean dropped his fork back into the bowl shaking his head in denial. "Wasn't you, Sammy. I was being an ass and was taking it out on you is all. Sometimes, things get to me and I just get so mad that I don't think clear."

Sam studied his brother for a moment, wondering how he could let him know just how much he appreciated what he gave up every single day because of him. "I know I drag you down. I just wish I was older to help so you'd stop having to look after my dumb ass twenty-four-seven. Maybe then you wouldn't need to get so mad…"

Remembering what he had said earlier to his brother, Dean felt his mouth go dry. "It's my job to look after you, little brother, always has been, always will be."

"Even if it means you never get to do things you want to do? That just plain sucks, Dean, just really sucks."

Sighing, Dean knew that his brother was too astute to swallow a lie. "Yeah, I guess that's why I get a little gnarly with things. It's frustrating watching dad leave me behind all the time, when I know I can be helping him, that I'm old enough to carry my own weight out there. But here I am again, stuck on the sidelines twiddling my thumbs. Waiting."

Sam shifted awkwardly in his chair at the confession, hating the thought of his brother stuck with the chore of looking after him just because dad demanded it of him

Dean sensing his discomfort added, "I'm not saying this to make you feel bad, kiddo. Just that there's stuff I need to do but can't. Just like you wanna do stuff but Dad doesn't think you're ready for yet. You understand me here, little brother?"

"Yeah, I do," answered Sam truthfully, reminded of his attempts with their dad to have the reins loosened a little and failing miserably.

Hearing his brother's tired voice of understanding, Dean added tellingly, "I just want the chance to prove to Dad that I'm all grown up now. That I'm more than ready to back him up out there on a job."

A flash of dimples greeted his confession as Sam mischievously commented, "He'd see just how grown up you were if he caught you locking tongues behind the bleachers with that Soapy girl…"

A wet noodle hit Sam on the cheek. "Best keep that zipped when Dad's around you little brat. I don't need another heart-to-heart from him on sex and condoms ever again!"

Wiping the smudge of sauce off his face with the palm of his hand, Sam laughed easily, "Ugh, enough Dean. I think I'm gonna go blind thinking of you and Soapy doing _that._"

"You wait until you're my age, dude, and that's all you're gonna be thinking about," grinned back Dean, happy to be in his little brother's good books again.

On seeing both their plates empty, he stood up and nodded at Sam. "Look, you go finish reading that book or watch some TV. I'll dump these in the sink and then I can tell you all about that little thing called sex that your missing out on."

Laughing despite himself, Sam shook his head. His Dad had given him specific responsibilities that meant TV would have to wait a little longer. "I have to finish that translation and recheck the salt lines. If Dad turns up, it's the first thing he's gonna notice."

"Dude, chill. I've got that covered." He glanced over to the TV and saw the opening credits of _Baywatch_ and waggled an eyebrow suggestively. "Do as I command little one. Go ogle some girl flesh so that you might finally take in the mysteries of the female of the species on this little backwater planet."

On following his brother's directive, Sam's eyes grew large as he took in the sight of scantly attired girls jiggling their bits on the screen. A blush crept up his neck as he was propelled over to the couch by Dean. "Watch and learn, watch and learn, little brother, as there will be a lengthy in-depth quiz later."

"But I wanna watch the repeat of _Matlock_," muttered Sam in disagreement, not ready to fall under the hormonal needs that kept his brother's eyes riveted to the screen, any thoughts of doing any chores relegated for a while as his downstairs brain took over.

"Screw freaking Matlock, " drawled Dean as he loitered by the back of the sofa, his attention latching onto one particularly busty blonde in danger of falling out of her swimming suit anytime soon, "Sweet Jesus, there is a god after all, Sammy boy."

_**TBC**_

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

_**I know it's a slow start and all but as is the way with those Winchester boys the battering and whumpage will follow soon enough**_**!**


	2. Chapter 2

Usual disclaimers apply. Big thanks for all the kind reviews with the opening chapter, I just haven't had the time to respond to them all in person yet, but give me time and I will. Rozzy.

**Chapter 2: Bucket full of teenage hormones**

Knuckling a scab encrusted fist over bleary eyes John pulled up outside the four-storey apartment block. Despite the crumbling façade and its unfavourable location in the wrong part of town he liked to think of it as home. Any place was if he could walk in through the front door and see his boy's safe and well.

Carefully he leant across to pick up the bags of groceries from the passenger seat, ignoring the sting of still healing lacerations on his body and pulled muscles.

The hunt in Hamilton hadn't gone to plan, turning from what he optimistically had hoped to be a one-man job to be a definite two-man affair. If Jim Murphy hadn't turned up when he did to save his stupid ass… well he didn't want to think on that or what it might have meant to his boys if he never made it back home again.

Sliding out of the impala John sucked in a sharp breath as the burn from his bruised ribs made themselves felt. "Get a grip man. You've had worse."

The truth was he had, but the day-long drive back to his boys had let his body stiffen up and now he felt like crap. He also knew the only reason he had kept up the insane schedule back to Detroit was because of his unsettling conversation with Dean on the phone last night.

Consciously fingering the grocery bags a little tighter John prayed that the peanut M & M's and Twinkie bars inside might soften up his oldest enough for him to make things right with him. It had too or he was royally screwed as he relied on Dean to keep the status quo, which allowed him to hunt while his boys stayed safe.

For all his faults John hoped he was at least sensitive enough to know when his normally rock-solid boy was readying to implode with frustration and throw a major teenage tantrum of the worse possible kind.

A smile flickered across his craggy face as he started his ascent up the stairs, thinking it strange to think of Dean being the poster boy for the hormonally challenged, hissy fit teenagers of the know universe, buts how he sounded last night… all snark and petulance.

The fact was that he'd dangled the carrot of the letting Dean come on the next big under his nose one time too many for the boy not to believe him anymore. Hence the snark fest last night, the kid felt cheated and John knew he was too blame for that.

Heavy-footed he trudged up the second flight of stairs, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he tried to think on a solution to his problem and give Dean what he needed.

Pride tugged at the corners of his mouth thinking on his oldest. Of his abilities he had no doubt. He was after all a walking swagger bag of confidence when it came to anything to do with hunting. The only thing holding him back was his brother.

John paused mid-step in worry for his youngest. Despite Sam being the human equivalent of a sponge, soaking everything thrown at him since Christmas, he still had little to no field experience under his belt. Sure he had let the kid tag along lately on some routine salt and burns, but the thought of taking his still-too-green butt out on a more dangerous jobs just chilled the very marrow in his bones.

As it stood the boy was more likely to try and talk a spook into inaction than shoots its supernatural ass with rocksalt. It was a part of Sam's genetic make up that made him at odds with what they hunted and what left him a danger to himself at times.

Sorrow hammered in John's chest knowing that what set his youngest aside as different from himself and his brother was a part of Mary surviving inside of him.

When Sammy was younger he had wanted to believe it was a good thing, that his wife had left him a child so much like herself. Now he thought it a burden that might one day end up killing his boy

As John started up the third flight of steps his features hardened, knowing that somehow Sammy would have to toughen up, even if that meant having to eradicate that gentle part of Mary residing inside of him.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

By the time he reached the top floor all John wanted was a cold beer and to sit his tired bones down to play catch up with his boys. He hefted the bags into one arm and jiggled the front door open and any thoughts of a beer vanished; instead a frown scored his forehead on seeing the too thin barrier of salt supposedly barring his way.

The noise of the television drew his eye to his youngest lying idly on the sofa and huffing out his annoyance he stepped over the ineffectual threshold to sidle silently up behind the couch. His eyebrows lifted in surprise on seeing what kept his kept his youngest attention, "Damn it to hell boy, you're gonna rot your brain watching crap like that."

With some satisfaction John noted how quickly Sam reacted, leaping to his feet and spinning around to face him in a split second, a surprised "Dad" escaping his lips.

"You bet your sorry ass it is."

Sam for his part wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole and he stuttered out a weak response, "Um.. I thought you were coming back tomorrow."

"Not soon enough if this is how you've been spending your free time," John snapped in return his exhaustion making his voice harsh. "You forget what I told you before I left?"

"No…no Sir," answered Sam, hating to be under such bitter scrutiny as his dad's eyes bored into him.

"Seems to me you must have. If I had been something dark and fugly I wouldn't have any problem in getting in here tonight would I?" John watched his son's face color and added sharply, "Go fix them salt lines. Every room. Now."

Sam mouthed an almost noiseless 'Yes sir' as he headed for the hallway cupboard to retrieve the heavy tin of industrial salt.

Watching him leave John shook his head, more than a little alarmed that the basics hadn't been seen too in his absence and he growled out a warning, "I want it done properly. Like your brother would do, not some slap dash job. You hear me?

John saw Sam stiffen midstride before mutely nodding his understanding, his shoulders slumping, as if his words had somehow scored a deeper hit than intended.

Shaking his head he bitterly remembered a time when his little boy would literally leap into his arms, demanding a hug, each time he returned home. Now he was lucky if the boy even said his name in greeting or with any warmth behind it.

A voice called out to and John and turned to see Dean standing in the kitchen doorway, drying his hands on a kitchen towel a soft smile on his face, "Hey dad, you know you like crap, right?"

"You should see the other guy," smirked back John before adding with a tired sigh, "At least you seem glad to see me son."

Dean guessed he was having a dig at the expense of his brother but let it go his attention focusing on the bags in this dad's arms. He took one off him and a huge smile lit up his face on pulling out a large pack of Twinkies. "Awesome dude."

John offered up a silent prayer of thanks that his bribe seemed to be working and he dared to ask. "You unknotted them panties you got into such a twist last night?"

Dean threw his dad a sheepish look, "Yeah, sorry about that, things just got on top of me. Wasn't just you I took it out on. Gave Sam both barrels earlier."

John shrugged, "Can't say I'm too impressed with the boy myself seeing the pathetic job he's been doing laying down the salt or hitting them books."

"Ah Dad no…" Dean voiced his disquiet as he followed after his father into the kitchen, "I dropped the ball on that one, not Sammy."

John raised a quizzical eyebrow and Dean admitted, "I said I'd do his chores tonight. Sort of a way to make up on the way I chewed out his bony ass earlier. Practically forced the kid to park his butt down and watch TV."

John slumped down on to a rickety chair recalling how browbeaten his younger boy had been under his harsh words. Looking up he caught the guilty look in Dean's eye and threw him telling smile, "I thought it odd him watching a show like that."

"Just wanted to up his education to a higher level is all," shrugged back Dean. "Said I'd quiz him later on all things that made a babe hot …"

Shaking his head John snorted his disbelief, "Not the sort of education I had in mind for your brother Dean. What he needs to learn is how to follow orders and not let you take up the slack for him."

Dean nodded, chewing on his bottom lip, hating the criticism, "Yes Sir. I'll make sure he sticks with the programme from now on."

"Good. You know it will keep him safe in the long run son."

Dean nodded his agreement all the while taking in his dad's tired appearance and felt guilty for letting him come back to a less than perfect welcome home. Popping open the fridge door he took out a cold beer and handed it to his dad, "You want some left over spaghetti? I can heat it up."

John face split into a warm smile of appreciation as he took proffered bottle, "No, this will do just fine for now. Thanks son."

Watching his dad ease himself further into the chair he dared to ask about the hunt, "You get the spirit sorted Dad?"

Sighing John knew he had made rooky mistakes with the job and admitted, "Got my ass saved by a certain gun-toting holy water throwing Pastor. Before Jim turned up I'd been thrown into every wall of the house like a freaking ping-pong ball. Still tasting the dry rot even now."

"Ughh! You need something stronger to wash the taste away?" Dean asked, studying his dad with fresh concern.

"Let me just take ten minutes to wind down first. A hot bath and shot of something stronger can wait till then."

Dean nodded his understanding and emptied the first bag of groceries. Finally he could contain himself no longer and blurted out, "You know the job you've got lined up next in Cincinnati is a two man gig. Its Spring break and I could come along, be that extra pair of hands your gonna need."

John felt the enthusiasm brimming out of his son and instinctively offered up another half promise, "Maybe."

Dean whistled out softly his surprise, "For real?"

John flinched on hearing such hope in his son's voice. "If I can get something sorted out for Sammy, then yeah maybe…."

Watching his boy's face fall on mentioning his brother he quickly added, "You know he doesn't have the skills yet to keep himself safe. Reading something in a book doesn't measure up to actual experience."

"I know Sir, I know, but you keep promising me the chance to get my hands dirty but it never seems to happen, is all," challenged Dean aware that he was in danger of labelling his dad a liar.

"Come on son, you know how it is, that if I don't have you covering my back with the little guy I'd not be able to hunt, maybe never be able to find that evil sonofabitch that took your mother from us…"

It was a low card to you use, bringing Mary into the conversation like this, knowing full well the effect it would have on his boy but John was desperate to keep his son in line.

Dean for his part sucked in a breath at the mention of his mom and found himself folding to agree with his father, "Yes Sir, I get it, perhaps in few years when Sammy's older."

John noted the resigned shake of his head as Dean started to unpack the rest of the groceries and felt like the worse dad in the world.

Before he could think it through John found himself blurting out, "Screw this, your right son, I shouldn't be using your brother as an excuse to hold you back anymore. Bout time you got a few notches on a score card of your own"

Dean paused and turned to his dad, a frown on his face, "What ya mean?"

Throwing him a wide smile John added, "I guess what I mean is that you're coming to Cincinnati with me kiddo. Team Winchester is going a-hunting."

Stunned at the turn around Dean could hardly breathe, wanting desperately to trust in his dad, that this time his promise really meant something, "You're not just yanking my chain?" When his dad shook his head Dean couldn't help but ask, "But what about Sam?"

"Let me worry what to do with the kid. You just get ready to go hunting with your old man."

As happy as he was to be given the chance to go on a dream hunt like this Dean still felt his responsibility to his brother finding voice, "You can't… I mean I won't leave him on his own sir."

John shook his head, desperately searching for a fix to his problem. California was too far away to offload Sam on to Jennings and Jim's place was seven hundred miles away. As for Bobby Singer, well the sour old cuss was barely on speaking terms with him at the moment.

Then the proverbial light bulb pinged in John's head, the solution in Fort Wayne just two hundred miles away and on the way to Cincinnati. Reaching into his jacket he pulled out his cell phone and threw a telling look at Dean, "Remember Mrs Doyle? She might take Sam in for us if I sweet talk her just right."

Dean gave a low whistle of surprise, "Bible thumping Widow Doyle? You know the word 'peculiar' was invented for that old broad." The teenager though couldn't disguise a smirk that flitted across his face as the thought of his brother stuck with the uptight woman for a few days seemed too funny not to want to run with it for a while.

"It's either Mrs Doyle or we take Sammy with us. What's it gonna be son?" asked John.

Knowing what they were going to hunt Dean shook his head decisively, "Jesus, no way dad. I'd rather stay home and play happy families with the runt than dump that gig into his lap."

John clamped a firm hand of approval on his son's shoulder, "So Mrs Doyle it is. You know a dose of her might make your brother appreciate his family just a little bit more."

Dean rolled his eyes and came to his brother's defence, "Lighten up dad, you know Sam appreciates us just fine. His life hasn't been a bright bucket of sunshine since Christmas has it, and has he complained? No."

Slowly John nodded, "Your right Sam is trying hard. Still I guess the break will do you both good. Your brother can chill out in that big old place of Bernadette's and you and I kiddo can have some quality time together for a change."

A wary smile flitted across Dean's face as the reality started to sink in that his dad really did mean to put him first this once, "You really sure about this Dad?"

Not bothering to answer John scanned down the list of contacts on his phone. After a few minutes a soft smile lifted the worry lines from his face as he said affectionately, "Hey Mrs Doyle, its John, John Winchester."

The voice down line couldn't hide its surprise, "Johnny! I've not heard from you in an age. You still zigzagging across the country with those two young hellions of yours?"

John chuckled lightly, "Yes ma'am, we've been staying in Detroit for a while but we're about to up sticks, about to head down to Cincinnati to do a job."

Quick off the mark the woman asked, the soft lilt of an Irish accent still evident even after forty years in the country, "So you dropping in for a visit along the way?"

"Sure would like to," John paused wondering how to word his request. "Look the thing is I need to ask a huge favour of you. Feel free to say no if it's too much of an imposition but my youngest needs a place to stay for a week. I can't risk taking him on this gig I've got lined up next."

There was a long pause before the woman replied, "I don't know John. I can remember what a handful that older boy of yours was last time he stayed? Wouldn't listen to a word I said. Nearly took a switch to him if I remember rightly."

John threw Dean a withering look before swallowing his pride, "Well Dean's quietened down a lot since then Bernadette. In fact he's my right hand man now."

Voicing her disbelief the woman snorted down the line, "You put him on Ritalin or something?"

John laughed despite himself and she continued, "That young hooligan tore around my place like a banshee with its shirt-tails on fire. If your youngest is anything like him at that age then I'm going to have to say no._" _

"Sam's nothing like that. The kid has his nose permanently buried in some book. I promise you won't even know he's around half the time," countered John, trying his best for damage control with the woman.

"He was quiet little thing," admitted the woman remembering a shy four year old who had been his brother's permanent shadow.

Sensing her softening John quickly added, stroking her ego as best he could, "You know Bernie there is less than handful of people in this crazy world of ours that I'd trust my baby boy to, and you're top of that list…."

"You surely kissed the blarney stone Johnny Winchester," chuckled the woman knowing when she was being played a line, "Okay, okay, I'll take the boy in. Best warn him though I'll not tolerate the ungodly antics that his brother tried under my roof like before."

John laughed his relief all too aware at how badly Dean had behaved that one day he left him in her care. "Sam will be as good as gold, that much I can promise you. We'll leave in the morning and see you sometime tomorrow."

On saying his thanks again he hung up and threw Dean a telling look, "Luckily for you I know how to do damage control with the woman. Sure doesn't remember you with any fondness."

Dean shrugged his indifference, his memory of his time with Mrs Doyle was only negative, "You know that old bag will have Sammy saying a thousand Hail Mary's for just breathing through the wrong nostril?"

"Show some respect Dean. Just because you couldn't hack having to say your P's and Q's in her home doesn't make her the bad guy."

"I break a few eggs and she tried to make me clean the freaking toilet with a toothbrush!" huffed back Dean indignantly

"I would have made you do worse and you know it," came back John, disguising his own amusement at the memory of a harried Mrs Doyle and an equally unrepentant Deans squaring off to each other four years ago.

"Someone had to save the family honour," boasted back Dean, "Hell it was only a few eggs…hardly enough to turn it into the crime of the century."

"Eggs that you stole from her pantry to lob at some lardy assed kid before you told Mrs Doyle to go screw herself when she tried to make you stop."

Dean smirked at the memory, of the bully he had sent packing with a bloodied nose and slimed with egg gunk from head to toe. "Like I told the old hag no one picks on my brother, not ever."

John laughed despite himself, "Well my bet is that she's been praying for your soul ever since."

Dean huffed at the notion, imaging the woman wearing a hole in her knees praying for his redemption, "Yeah now see that that's why it might be best to leave Sam with the Pastor and keep that old battle axe completely out of the equation?"

John shook his head, "Jim's place is the opposite direction to where we want to go. You do the math son."

"Yeah but if he's still on the road he could still swing back and pick up Sammy."

"Come on Dean, you know how many miles we'd have to burn just to go pick him up again? Look if you're getting cold feet I can scrap you coming on this hunt, you can look after Sammy instead. Maybe the next big job would be better."

Anxiously Dean shook his head in denial, not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, "No Sir, I wanna come. Suppose the little geek won't find Mrs Doyle such a drag not with all those books she has littering that huge house of hers."

John sighed his relief, "Good, then it's all settled."

Voicing his thoughts out loud John continued, "You know Mrs Doyle might just be the best thing for your brother right now. Her husband was a damn fine hunter and her boys were raised to be the same. She'll be able to get him to knuckle down to his studies and understand just what our world is all about."

"Thought that's what I've been doing with the kid," muttered back Dean, not liking to think anyone else trying to shape his little brother's thinking.

John threw him a telling look, "What Mrs Doyle doesn't know about hunting would be hard pressed to fill a thimble. Sam's damn lucky she's willing to take him under her wing. He'll be all the better for it, mark my word."

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

Sam carefully re-salted the windows and doors all the while wondering just what his dad and brother were talking about. He just hoped it wasn't about Mrs Swanson and her threat to call home.

When his dad called out sharply for him his heart literally jumped into his mouth and he spilt a small mountain of salt onto his bare feet. Cursing his own stupidity he started to shake of the white grains ferreting between he toes and muttered back, "Coming Sir."

It wasn't quick enough as his dad called out even louder for him and he found himself hurrying towards the kitchen, wondering if the truce his brother had brokered earlier was for nothing if his teacher had already called his dad.

As he entered the kitchen Sam caught the strange look his brother gave him before he shouldered past him. He looked over to his father and thought it best to say sorry before he got another tongue lashing. "I'm sorry about not doing my chores. I won't let it happen again."

"That's not what I called you in here for. Listen up, I mean to leave you with a friend of mine in Fort Wayne, a Mrs Doyle, during the spring break as Dean's coming with me to Cincinnati to help with a job I have lined up there."

Sam's mouth fell open and he was lost for words. He was being dumped in Fort Wayne with the same woman that his brother had hinted at in the past as being a cherry short of a fruit-cake?

John saw the confusion on his boy's face and found himself asking, "Do you understand me here? I'm taking Dean on a hunt and you're staying with Mrs Doyle during the break."

Sam sucked in a long breath before asking, "But why can't I come with you? I've been practising just like you told me to. I can shoot almost as good as Dean now."

John reacted dismissively, "Practising in front of the damned television isn't going to cut it when you're trying to blow the brains out of something intent on ripping out your throat."

Sam bit his lip at the rebuke, but the thought of being left with some strange old woman gave him enough courage to ask, "What about if I go to Blue Earth instead? Pastor Jim said last summer I could stay with him anytime."

"No like I told your brother Jim's too far way."

John held up a hand in warning when he saw the rebellious glint in his boy's normally placid eyes, "You want me to call your brother back and tell him he can't go because your too selfish to suck it up for a week in Fort Wayne?"

The thought of Dean missing out on because of him forced a shake of a head from Sam and he whispered back his defeat, "No Sir, I don't want to ruin it for him."

John tried to ignore the disappointment radiating out from his boy, "It's only a week, ten days at the most. You know Mrs Doyle near enough has a full blown library of books for you to discover. You'll love it there."

Sam tried to hide his emotions but his eyes betrayed him glittering too brightly with unshed tears as he tried another route, "What if I stay at Colin's house instead. He's always asking me to sleep over and his dad wants to take us to the fair next week and all."

John slapped down his bottle of beer on the table and Sam jumped back at the anger behind it, "Don't think your hearing me. This job means we're moving on anyway. Best you go help your brother pack your stuff up. I aim to be at Fort Wayne by midday tomorrow."

Sam felt his stomach clench at the news but the stubborn streak that refused to remain dormant made him try again, "Then why can't I come with you and Dean. I could help clean the weapons and do other stuff. I won't get in the way, I promise."

John's face hardened, trying to keep his resolve firm, "Promises don't mean much when you can't live up to them."

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

"It's only to Friday then we'll be back. Hardly time enough to miss your ugly mug that's for sure," teased Dean as they stopped at the bottom of the large stone steps that led up to the imposing frontage of the late Victorian red brick building.

When Sam just shrugged indifferently Dean offered up a gentle warning, "Just don't rub the old broad up the wrong way then you'll be fine. Be the golden boy to my bad boy act and steer clear of any potential egg disasters, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, be good, got it," answered Sam, head bowed to hide the pain he was feeling at this enforced separation from his brother.

Glancing over to where his dad stood deep in conversation with the tall grey haired woman all Sam could think was that his dad didn't look in the least sorry to be getting rid of him and his heart sank again. He thought, had hoped, that during the long drive here his dad might have changed his mind but it wasn't to be.

Eyes stinging as he looked pointedly down at the ground, he didn't notice his dad and Mrs Doyle approach until he heard a decidedly feminine voice say, "He's grown tall John. Last time I saw him he was a scrawny little thing, barely knee high to a grasshopper. I though the was going to be the runt of the family but now look at him."

"Yeah that's my boy alright, growing like a whippet," answered John with genuine pride.

Bernadette looked from Sam to Dean and her eyes grew cold, "Well lets pray he's growing up better than his brother. The boy run riot last time he was under my roof. If you hadn't taken him into hand when you did I would have tanned his backside good and proper."

Dean bristled by his brother's side but a firm nudge from his dad's elbow clenched his jaw shut and instead he just glowered back the woman.

It was a staring contest of wills as Mrs Doyle and Dean looked at each other with open dislike and John hastily put himself in between them, "Bernadette I promise you Sam will be no bother at all, besides he knows what to expect if he steps out of line."

As Mrs Doyle nodded her understanding she laid a proprietary hand on Sam's shoulder her voice firm as she demanded, "Come on Samuel best be saying your goodbyes. Your father is anxious to be on his way."

Sam danced instinctively away from the unfamiliar touch, throwing a look at his brother for instruction. He bit his lip when he saw his brother's gaze flicker from his dad back to him before throwing a minute shake of his head in apology.

"The child seems a might skittish John. You sure it okay to leave him with me? " demanded Mrs Doyle.

"He'll be fine," hissed back John through clenched teeth glowering at Sam in disapproval.

"My brother will be just _fine_ if she keeps her hands to herself," snapped back Dean under his breath, "Doesn't need some old broad manhandling him like he's her own."

A groan escaped from John, but a smile lit up Sam's face in open admiration for his brother's smart mouth.

Sensing things were spiralling out of control John warned, "Dean for once just shut your mouth."

"Yes Sir," snapped back Dean though he offered up a reassuring wink to his brother to the side.

A giggle escaped from the youngest Winchester whose shoulders were shaking hard as he tried to suppress his laughter.

John lifted his eyes heavenwards then threw a watery smile of apology to the older woman. "I'm sorry Bernadette but Dean gets a little angsty when it comes to anything to do with his brother."

Shaking her head Mrs Doyle shook her head in disbelief, "If I talked to my betters the way your boy does then I wouldn't have been able to sit down for a month. My father would have taken a belt to my backside to make sure."

"I know, I know," agreed John dourly, eyes glinting a warning at his oldest as he added. "Dean will say his apologies of that I'm sure."

Dean stiffened at his side but knew when an order had to be obeyed and through clenched teeth spat out, "Sorry ma'am, guess I've got a nasty habit of letting my mouth run away from me at times."

Mrs Doyle looked at the older Winchester boy with a hard face, "Let's just pray your brother hasn't inherited your bad qualities or he'll be sucking on a bar of soap most of the week."

John frowned at the remark but let it slide instead directing his attention to his once again silent youngest son. "You listen to what Mrs Doyle tells you. Remember that you can learn a lot from her."

He waited for a response but his boy still looked pointedly away from him. Grinding his teeth he knew that he couldn't afford to lose face with the widow and growled out a warning. "I'll be the first to know if you give her any grief and mark my words there will be hell to pay if you do. We clear here Sam?"

Sam lifted his head to stare up at his dad a glint of defiance in his normally soft eyes, "I understand….Sir."

Dean watched the tension ripple between the two of them, wondering if the shaky truce that had taken up between the two of them for his sake would hold. He knew his brother was going to be miserable with the crabby old cow in front of him but the prospect of time alone with his dad on a hunt was proving to irresistible to want to put his needs aside for Sam.

As he dropped his brother's holdall at his feet Dean offered up an apology, "Sorry Sammy. See you soon, okay?"

Sam didn't say anything, picking up his bag with a resigned sigh, knowing that nothing was going to change his dad's mind and he was stuck here for the next week with a woman who made his skin physically crawl every time he looked at her.

John let out a long breath, daring to believe that the threatened scene with his youngest wasn't going to materialise. Taking this as his chance to escape he quickly said his goodbyes pressing a thin wad of banknotes into the widow's hand with a shrug of apology, "I hope it's enough for his keep, I'll fix things up with you when we get back if it isn't enough."

Slipping the money into her skirt pocket Mrs Doyle shook her head, "Come now John as if money could ever be an issue between us."

John huffed out his thanks, "You're a real gem Bernadette. Call me if you have any problems. Leave a message if I'm out of range and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

"You just worry about keeping your oldest under control as I aim to do with your youngest here."

Dean rolled his eyes and silently mouthed the words '_What a bitch'_ at his brother and was rewarded with a brief flash of dimples again.

It wasn't missed on the woman and she added bitingly as she hooked her gaze tellingly on Dean again. "Still I suppose poor Samuel can't help the bad examples he's been exposed to. Something we can work to improve on during the days ahead."

"What the fu…." growled Dean managing to swallow back a cuss word before he got into even deeper trouble with his dad, "Sam has been raised just fine."

"That's enough!" warned John managing to cut off another expletive in mid cuss, his exasperation growing with both his boys. This was supposed to be a simple dump and run not World War three between Mrs Doyle and his children.

Stabbing a finger at his oldest he ordered, "You, go wait in the goddam car. Now!"

Dean knew he had gone too far on seeing the tick pulse on his dad's cheek and threw Sam a rueful shrug as he headed back to the impala muttering under his breath. "Bye little brother, just remember what doesn't kill us makes us stronger dude!"

Groaning out loud John resisted the urge to strangle his first-born and instead threw a weak depreciating grin at Mrs Doyle. "Sorry about that again Bernadette, the kid is a bucket full of teenage hormones at times. I'll be having words with him, you can be sure on that."

The tall woman shook her head again in clear disapproval, "You surprise me John, taking such disrespect from your children. You know the old saying 'Spare the rod, spoil the child' really does mean that. You're going to have real trouble keeping control of them if you keep indulging them like this."

John laughed in denial, "You sound just like my grandfather. Mean old goat had a strap and knew how to use it. Sure put the fear of God into if we stepped out of line."

"And rightly so," agreed Mrs Doyle as a sickening smile stretched across her face pleased that she had the man's understanding. "Children needs the firm hand of an adult to show them the error of their ways. That and guidance from the good Lord himself. It's how I raised my three boys to be strong in this ungodly world around us."

John nodded and swallowed back his discomfort. Bernadette Doyle could preach about her faith as much as she liked as long as it kept his boy safe whilst he was gone. "You did a fine job with your family that's for sure. Couldn't ask more for my Sam."

Placated by the praise coming her way she purred back, "Time to stop your fretting and be gone with you John Winchester. Samuel will be just fine here with me."

John looked back at his son again and felt unease sitting in the pit of his stomach that he was leaving him with only harsh words between them. Ruffling a hand over too long hair he growled out softly, "See you soon enough son. Just remember to do as Mrs Doyle tells you, okay?"

When his son didn't say anything John added with an almost pleading quality to his voice for understanding, "Just don't let me down as I'm counting on you to do right by the family name. Okay?"

Sam's ability to speak had deserted him at the unexpected affectionate touch from his father and merely nodded his agreement, his eyes glittering dangerously as the hand lifted away and that rare moment of intimacy was lost as his dad drew himself up right.

"So we clear here son? You'll make me proud and do everything Mrs Doyle tells you to do without argument?"

Sam sucked in a breath before agreeing, "I promise Sir."

John cast a glance at Bernadette and saw the approval on her face. Taking that as his cue to leave he spun round and with long strides headed back to the impala. Acid burned in his throat as he left his boy behind, hating the look in his eyes, so much likes Mary's and with so much hurt in them. It was only for few days he kept telling himself. Only a few days and the boy would be just fine.

With longing in his eyes Sam wanted to call after the retreating figure, beg him to take him along, but on seeing Dean's broad smile on his face when dad got into the car the words caught in his throat. He couldn't take this away from his brother and like his dad had said he would just have to suck it up and prove himself worthy to be called a Winchester.

As the impala pulled away Mrs Doyle looked down at the young boy and for a moment was lost for words. It had been a good few years since she had a child left in her care, and the responsibility felt strange. Her fingers twitched to touch him again, offer him some comfort, but on recalling his brother's hateful words they stilled.

Taking a steadying breath she took control of her emotions, "Come on Samuel, lets go inside. I'll show you to your room and you can unpack. Then you and I can sit down and go over the rules that govern my house."

"Yes ma'am,' responded Sam, hefting his holdall up into his arms as he followed after her, his nose twitching at the strange smell of boiled cabbage and bleach as he entered the house.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

"Dad you think he'll be okay?" asked Dean as they drove away. "It doesn't seem quite right dumping him like this."

John shot a look at his son marvelling at his capacity to care so much about his brother, "Sam will be just fine."

"Yeah," responded Dean, "Guess so. Just that Sammy looked real miserable didn't he?"

"Its only a week, eight days max, Dean. Besides you know he'll have her wrapped around his little finger in no time. All the girls fall for that sad puppy dog look he has down pat."

Dean snorted his affirmation feeling a little better about his separation from his brother, "Yep, if anyone can melt old iron-drawers it's our boy."

John laughed out loud, knowing that Sam's innate ability to draw out the mothering instincts of females of all ages would leave him in good state with the widow. Bernadette might be all fire and brimstone at first but she'd soon soften under Sam's quite charm, of that he was certain.

As they turned back onto the highway John felt his worries melt away and his confidence grew. Bernadette Doyle was the win-win solution for him, for them all. Dean got to carve his first notch on his hunting belt whist Sam stayed behind nice and safe.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

Bernadette Doyle took a long sip, enjoying the burn of alcohol sliding down her throat as she eyed the clock. It was almost two in the morning and despite nearing the end of a bottle of fine malt whiskey sleep wouldn't come her way. It rarely did these days even with the anaesthetic of alcohol at hand to numb the pain or block the memories of too many losses, the last being her beloved Seamus seven years ago.

Since then her boys had moved on with their own lives. Her oldest had gone back to Ireland and whilst the other two had moved far enough away, Hawaii and California, so that she was lucky if they visited her once a year.

It left her lonely, that much she could admit to herself, never expecting to slide into old age on her own, without the man she had loved all her life besides her.

She poured the last of the whiskey into the glass and knocked it back in one long chug before automatically reaching for the second bottle tucked under her bed. Uncorking it her hand stilled for a second in seeming reluctance before need took over and she poured out another measure.

The child sleeping down the hallway kept gnawing away at her thoughts, painfully aware at just how vulnerable he really was. John still refused to do right by the boy, wanting to believe that wards of protection, sigils and salt, were all he needed to keep him safe.

But death came in many forms other than just the supernatural. It had taken Seamus with a heart attack when he was in his prime and her first born as a cot death at just six weeks old.

Her hand trembled as she poured out another shot of whiskey. Guilt ate away at her, knowing that forty years ago she let an innocent soul slip into limbo all because of the assumption that she had time to get her baptised. But Time was a cruel player, taking her sweet Kathleen before she could be blessed and be saved.

She had tried before to make Johnny know what he was risking with his youngest, but whatever faith that had allowed him to have his first born baptised had been soured by the death of his wife. Now he was implacable, his will against God so it seemed. Daring fate to do its worse.

Grimly she shook her head. Despite her affection for John Winchester his stance offended her sensibilities. Taking another long sip of whiskey she damned the man for his stubbornness that allowed him to raise his boys in such a spiritual vacuum. It would come to no good in the end, of that much she was certain.

Staggering to her feet her mind suddenly made up Bernadette stumbled down the hallway intent in saving at least one child's soul before the week was up.

She flung the door to the guest bedroom with enough force for it to hit the wall with a loud thud and Sam shot up with a startled gasp.

Immediately alert and fearful he looked at the tall figure at the foot of his bed and asked, "What's wrong?"

"You my lad, that's what's wrong," slurred out Mrs Doyle before stabbing a finger at him. "Your father has left you sorely neglectful and ignorant of the Lord and his ways."

Sam stiffened, wondering at the change in the woman before him, not quite sure how to react to her accusation but still felt he had defend to his father. "But dad lets Pastor Jim teach me about stuff like that."

"Pastor Murphy!" huffed back Mrs Doyle with a contemptuous roll of her eyes. "That man is about as near to the Lord as a flea is on a dog's backside. No child it seems to be me that I have to save your soul from easy damnation. Mark you, it is something your father should seen to years ago."

"I don't understand," murmured Sam as he looked up a the woman. The smell of something sour hit his nostrils and he shrank away knowing now why she was acting so strangely. "Please Mrs Doyle just go back to bed. My dad does just fine by me. Honest."

Refusing to take in his denial Mrs Doyle grabbed his hand in a fierce grip, "You don't know what's at risk here. I lost my first child before I could baptise her and my poor baby lingers in limbo now, you willing to risk that for yourself?"

"I don't even know what limbo means," answered Sam truthfully, his eyes wide reflecting both his confusion and fear. The woman was starting to scare the crap out of him.

As if sensing his bewilderment Bernadette patted his hand, "I know, and there in is the rub, poor boy. Sweet Jesus will save you Samuel if you let him, lead you back on to the good path if you let Him. Save you from the bad ways that your brother has exposed you to."

"No," cried out Sam, twisting away from her grip. "Dean isn't bad and I don't need you preaching freaking some mumbo jumbo about Jesus to tell me otherwise."

The sharp sting of a slap to the side of his head brought a gasp of surprise to his lips as Mrs Doyle spat out furiously, "You will never, ever take the Lord's name in vain in my house ever again. Or so help me I will take a switch to you. You understand me?"

Sam blinked back the hot burn of tears, the awful reality sinking in that his dad had left him with this woman fully aware of her views and ways and heavy hands. After all he had heard him laughing his agreement about corporal punishment with her just minutes before he had dumped and run.

Struggling to cope with the sense of betrayal, that his dad would let another person strike him with his ready permission, he didn't know what to do next or how he was supposed to react.

The drunken woman smiled in victory as she saw Sam slowly rub at his still smarting ear, eyes bowed in apology as he said, "I'm sorry Mrs Doyle."

Dragging him with a force that belied her slim face she dragged Sam out of bed, "Come Samuel, kneel with me and let us pray hard for your redemption. For your soul to be rescued and lifted up into Heaven should you fall."

Feeling the burden of the promise made to his dad before he left Sam didn't resist, figuring he would just have to suck it up like expected.

If the crazy woman besides him needed to get plastered every night and wanted to preach god knows what at him so be it. He would just have to learn not to antagonise her and bite his tongue from now on.

Maybe after this he could prove to his dad that his promises meant something after all.

TBC

Phew heavy going I know, but the action hots up next chapter. Again reviews are love itself!

_**A.N. Religion is such a thorny subject to tackle, and I seriously have no intention to offend people with my scribbling. And that is what it is, Scribbling. **_

_**Of note Limbo was the presumed place where unbaptised children souls resided on death. Pope Piux X declared in 1905: "Children who die without baptism go into limbo, where they do not enjoy God….." Up until 2005 this was the considered view of the Catholic Church.. **_

_**Just wanted to give some grounding into Sam's thoughts as this story progresses. **_


	3. Chapter 3

Usual disclaimers along with my apologies in getting back to all the inspiring reviews sent my way. I appreciate them all, they keep me focused even when RL keeps kicking at my shins. Have to say meextra special thanks to Carocali for her Beta'ring skills in getting this chapter into readable form! Rozzy

**Spare the Rod – Part 3 - Failings and Falling**

Sam pulled at his overly starched shirt collar he had been forced to wear and threw another dark look at Mrs Doyle's back.

He was convinced that the woman was in the process of trying to torture him to death either through sleep deprivation or making him wear a dress suit. _Dean would die laughing if he caught sight of me dressed up like some penguin!_ So, yeah, his choice here was either death by exhaustion or utter mortification.

In an act of defiance, he ran a hand over his slicked down locks, ruffling up the enforced parting to let his shaggy bangs find a natural path over his face. Grinning at his rebellion, Sam felt marginally better as he watched Mrs Doyle move around the large dining area playing hostess to some of Fort Wayne's socially mobile wannabes.

Despite his young years, Sam was wise enough to know a fake when he saw one; and that's what Old Widow Doyle was. From the simpering piety she projected at Mass earlier, to the caterer's buffet she was passing off as homemade.

Worse though were the syrupy smiles of affection she would throw his way whenever one of her guests pointed him out amongst the crowd. It made his skin crawl each time it happened and every time he had to keep his features schooled and neutral.

Still, for the eight-year-old, it was morbidly fascinating to watch Mrs Doyle hold centre stage, manipulating those around her so that each guest felt special by being in attendance. A knowing laugh here, a steering hand moving one guest on to another, all readily sucked in by her charm offensive. It was no wonder his dad had fallen so easily under her guile. Maybe Dean was right and she really _was_ an old witch casting spells to mask her true identity.

But the whole charade was at a cost, and Sam's sharp eyes had already noticed how the widow's lips would draw to a thin line along with the slight tremor in her hands every time she poured herself another glass of wine. It left him wondering just how much longer she could keep the act of Mrs Respectability whilst battling against the neurotic monster he knew existed within her wanting an out.

After the misery of last night, Sam had enough understanding about Mrs Doyle to appreciate just how thin the veneer was from normal to madness she wore. It left him wary; tracking her movements around the room.

As the afternoon wore, Sam had been so intent on keeping track of Mrs Doyle that it was only the waft of a floral perfume that signalled fresh danger. He swung his head around to catch sight of a fuchsia-suited middle-aged woman sashaying towards him.

Fixing her with the perfected Winchester death glare he'd learned from his brother, Sam passed on the threat that he was readying to bite the next set of matronly fingers that dared pinch his cheek and called him 'Sweetie' or worse.

Communication made clear, the woman stopped midstride with a look of surprise. "Oh my! And Bernadette said you were such a darling young thing!"

Sam resisted the urge to stick out his tongue and instead drolly replied, "Winchester's don't do 'darling' no matter what _she_ might want you to think."

The woman chortled, giving him a knowing wink. "Nice to see a kid with some balls. Be warned though, _she_ has been known to chew them off full grown men in seconds…they don't call her Doberman Doyle for nothing."

"Don't I know it," agreed Sam throwing her flash of dimples and a small shrug. "Still, like my brother said, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger!"

His innocently given smile worked its usual magic and the woman melted even further. "I'm Mildred Jones. Milly to my friends."

Sam took the proffered hand with a shy nod, "Sam Winchester."

"Well, Sam it's nice to see some fresh young blood in this old house. My own boys used to come over to play when they were younger, but that was a good thirty odd years ago. Before all three boys of hers upped and moved away so far away they're virtual strangers to the woman..." She caught his knowing look and found herself asking, "So, you staying with Bernadette for long?"

Sam shrugged not sure how far he could trust the woman not to repeat what he said back to Mrs Doyle. "No, it's just till Friday when my family comes back to pick me up."

"Well, I bet your mom will make a real fuss of you then. I know I used cluck like a broody chicken when I was away from my kids when they were younger."

Sam's head bowed at the mention of a mother he had no connection to, once again left wondering what he was missing out on.

Sensing his withdrawal, the woman didn't press the conversation any further. "Well, Sam nice to have met you but I best be getting back to my husband before he drinks the new Father under the table."

"Yeah, bye," replied Sam, his eyes darting across the room to where the priest in question and a solidly built man of around sixty were deep in loud conversation with Mrs Doyle by their sides acting as some sort of referee.

Milly groaned on following his line of sight. "That fool man of mine will be worse than a bear with a sore head in the morning. Bernadette's lunches always turn into such liquid affairs, especially dangerous if you don't line your stomach first!"

Tutting her disapproval, she headed back to the small gaggle of people holding court around his nemesis and Sam let out a dejected sigh. Milly had been a refreshing moment against the backdrop in a sea of faceless, boring people. Watching her leave, Sam was left feeling lost again, and not for the first time that day found himself really missing the company of his brother.

Friday just couldn't come quick enough.

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

Dean eyed his watch and wondered what his brother was up to. It was past seven but he imagined the little geek would no doubt have his head buried in a book or something equally as boring.

The motel dad had booked them into last night was no different from any other, but the local diner boasting the best burgers in town had lived up to its promise. And now, for the second time in two days, he was feasting like a Carry-out King.

John watched his boy eat with gusto and couldn't help a smile of pride slip out. His son was an untapped potential of energy, and it felt good to have him along for company and back up. Having Dean with him mellowed the bruises and aches to just a background nuisance from his last hunt. It was good to have this connection back with his son.

"Hey, Dad," asked Dean between mouthfuls, "Can we give Sammy a call? See how he's doing with the old witch."

"Dean, stop calling her that," huffed out John in annoyance with his oldest boy's continued antagonism to his friend.

The fact was he needed to hear his youngest boy's voice as much as Dean did. It hadn't been easy leaving his boy the way he did. Only a man with a heart of stone would have been immune to his youngest haunted look as he left him behind in Fort Wayne.

Coughing away his discomfort John added, "Eat up first then we'll go use the payphone outside the Super's office. Gotta keep my other cell free for a call I'm waiting on from Joshua."

A broad smile was his reward and the burger in Dean's hand seemed to vanish in seconds. "God, Dean you're making my stomach hurt just watching you massacre that burger."

"Nah!" came back Dean's muffled response as he stuffed the last bite into his mouth. "Z'all good. Let's go."

Before John could respond, Dean was out of the door in full intercept mode for the payphone thirty yards away. Chuckling out his amusement, John followed fingering the loose change in his pocket, judging he was going to need it all before their talk with Sammy was done with.

He shouldered past Dean on the last few strides to the payphone and took charge. After a few rings Bernadette's voice came down the line, "Hello?"

"Hey, Bernadette, just checking in to see how things are going?"

"Well, it's been a long day for these old bones of mine, Johnnie. I took Samuel to mass and fingers crossed I might have been able to put a good word in with Father Hennessy for your boy."

John stiffened, knowing full well what she was hinting at, "Bernie we've been down this road before, you know how I feel…"

The widow snapped back, "That your too bull headed to do the right thing! Don't think I haven't been telling young Samuel that either."

John chuckled despite the acid in her words, "Good luck with that one. Sam will make up his own mind on things, no matter what you or I say or do."

"We'll see, Jonathon. Such a choice shouldn't be left in the hands of a child and you know it."

John sought quickly to the change the subject and asked, "So, my boy behaving himself like he promised?"

Knowing she was being steered away from a touchy subject with the man, Bernadette huffed out a response. "Well, I had a lunch today and he didn't disgrace himself if that's what you're asking. Mind you, I did warn him in no uncertain terms beforehand to leave his brother's influence at the gate, if you get my drift."

"So, its all good then?" John smiled his relief ignoring her dislike of one son if it meant the other was safe. He heard Dean huff out his impatience for an update and quickly asked, "Let me have a word with my boy."

"Surely, John, he went up to change. I had him wear a suit, and mighty handsome he looked, but you would have thought I'd made him drink vinegar for all the thanks I got. Anyway I'll call him down for you."

He heard her bellow out his son's name and found himself holding his breath in anticipation. After half a minute, he exhaled his disappointment on hearing Bernadette call out again for him.

"I'm sorry, John. He might have fallen asleep; we had a late one last night and it's been a long day. I'll go wake him up."

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

Sam had hot-legged it up stairs the moment the last guest left, taking that as his opportunity to rid himself of the hateful suit he'd been forced to wear. It itched and reeked of mothballs and Sam could only hazard a guess to its antiquity; no doubt hanging in a closet since the old woman's sons were boys his age or worse.

Welcoming the silence after the noisy lunch, Sam rubbed back the headache he had been sporting since mass. After last night, he was tired but still too wired to want to sleep. Besides, with the widow busy bossing around the catering staff as they cleared up, he thought this his perfect opportunity to search out the library's location that his Dad had tried to use as a bribe to keep him in line.

It was worth the risk he figured, breaking another of the woman's stupid rules, because what was the point of having such a huge house if you couldn't go exploring and find something to take away the boredom of the day?

After a small hunt he found it on the second floor - a massive room with shelving that covered the walls from floor to ceiling. It was kept as neat as the rest of the house, books squared up in orderly fashion and to Sam it was like finding Aladdin's cave.

Sam travelled around the room till he found one book in particular that caught his eye. Pulling the large leather bound tome out on Ancient Myths, he sat crossed leg on the carpet and slowly got sucked into a world of spellbinding imagery, letting time go past without thought.

At some point, his lack of sleep had betrayed his body's needs and Sam had nodded off. He woke up later as the sudden bang of a slamming door somewhere in the house vibrated up through the floor.

Squinting against the darkness, Sam realised with a sinking feeling that it was now night. He jumped up to his feet a little afraid of his unfamiliar surroundings, stumbling over to the large table in the centre of the room and turning on one of the reading lights. His panic lessened when only books stared back at him and not any of the weird and wonderful creatures that he had just been dreaming about.

Feeling a little foolish at his small moment of panic, he hastily put away his book and ventured back onto the landing, hoping to sneak back down to his room before Mrs Doyle discovered where he'd been.

Sam made it halfway down the stairs when another door slammed and he heard his name being called from below.

"Samuel Winchester you get down here right now!"

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

"I'm coming," Sam hastily called back taking the stairs two at a time. He almost ran right into Mrs. Doyle as he turned the corner to the lounge.

The woman looked flustered as she demanded, "Where on earth did you ferret yourself off to young man? I've been looking all over the place for you."

"I was tired and must of nodded off. I didn't mean to…I'm sorry."

"Well, you've had your poor Da hanging on the other end of the line all this time. Go speak to him now before he thinks something unnatural has spirited you away."

Sam's face lit up as hurriedly took the phone offered to him. "Dad!"

"No, it's me, your awesome older brother, you doofus! Dad got another call he'd been waiting on and left me waiting for your sorry ass to make an appearance!" came back a familiar voice down the line.

An even broader smile lit up Sam's face, "Dean! Oh man it's good to hear from you."

"Might not have done if I have to wait ten seconds longer," huffed back Dean. "You know, I had in the back of mind that the old witch had put you in her cooking pot and eaten you for supper or something."

Sam gave a weak chuckle in answer, feeling awkward at having Mrs Doyle's steely eyes on him. "No, I got to reading and I…"

"Jesus, say no more, you little freak. You doing good then I take it, being fed and watered three times a day?"

Shifting on his feet, Sam looked sideways at his guardian and swallowed back an honest response. "Yeah, I'm fine, Dean." He heard Mrs Doyle sniff her approval and asked quickly, "What about you and Dad?"

"Yeah, we're cool," came back Dean. "By the sounds of things you've wrapped that old battleaxe around your finger already, living the good life as she feeds you bonbons or whatever."

"So not true," snorted back Sam indignantly. "Please tell me that you guys are wrapping up the job as planned and are coming back to get me by Friday, right?"

Sam's face paled on hearing his brother's words, "Maybe, Sammy. Things are a little bit complicated by the fact that there's no body to burn. Dad thinks the spook has latched itself to something in the tunnel and we've got to find it and smoke it out."

"But there's miles of tunnel, Dean. It could take you _months_ to find it." Sam let out a worried breath, having had a chance to glance at his brother's research before he was farmed off to Widow Doyle. "That thing kills people. I don't wanna lose the only pain in the um .. backside brother I've got."

Sam had checked his language before the widow could slam him with it later and Dean chuckled down the line. "Whoa, man I take it back! She's got _you_ wrapped around _her_ little finger. Backside my ass!"

Sam scowled out his unhappiness despite the woman's presence nearby. "No! Just toeing the line like Dad wants."

"Yeah, I can hear it! Dad said you hammed it up for some fancy-smancy lunch the old hag had today."

Sam swallowed back his hurt, "It's not like I had much choice, Dean."

Dean snorted derisively, "And to think I was worried about leaving your sorry ass behind. Sounds like you and Widow McHinkey are having a grand old time."

"Dean, it's not like that at all." Sam carded his hand through his long locks, desperate to make his brother understand how miserable he was.

"Whatever! Look, just stay cool till we can we can do a snatch and grab on Friday."

Sam tried to keep the need out of his voice as he asked, "You'll call before then?"

"I'll try Sammy. I know Dad was a little pissed he didn't get to talk to you tonight anyways. We'll play catch up later."

Sighing his relief Sam demanded, "Well just don't anything dumb like getting yourself hurt, Dean."

"Me? Dude, I'm Mr Indestructible."

"You wish! Just tell Dad I wanted to talk to him, too. Okay?"

"Yeah will do, kiddo. Gotta go, running out of change. Talk to you soon – bye, runt."

Before he could say his own farewell, Sam heard the click as the call ended and found himself whispering to empty air, "Bye Dean."

Daring to look up, he saw Mrs Doyle tapping her foot impatiently, hand outstretched and he gave her back the phone. "Thank you, Mrs Doyle."

"I called you for a full five minutes, you think it fun hiding from me? Making me look like some slow witted fool to your Da?"

"No, truly, I just fell asleep."

"Not in your room, as I checked there. So where were you?"

Swallowing back his fear Sam admitted, "The... library."

"Did I not make myself clear when I told you my rules; that unless you get my express permission you are not to go anywhere unattended around this house," warned Mrs Doyle in a tight whisper.

"I'm sorry, its just Dad said you had an awesome collection of books and I just wanted to see it for myself."

Fingers bit into his shoulder in a tight grip and the widow glowered down at Sam. "And you gave into temptation, just like Adam taking the first bite of the apple. Is this how you choose to live your life, giving into your desires, blaming your father for them and damning your soul in the process?

Thinking her a hypocrite but knowing better than to answer back, Sam just shook his head in denial, his tummy doing flip-flops at the mention of his Dad and what he assumed would be his disapproval.

"Go to your room, Samuel and think on what I've just said," hissed the woman, pushing him away in disappointment. "Already the worm of corruption is eating inside you. The sooner we learn to rid you of it the better."

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

Dean was bored with a capital B. For three nights, they had been making their way through the tunnels that made up Cincinnati's old abandoned subway from Norwood back into town with no success.

Daring a glance at his Dad, almost invisible on the opposite side of the tunnel, Dean wondered if he felt the same. He knew better than to ask though. Keeping his trap shut was a given when a certain Mr Nasty could be just waiting around the next corner to take a pop at them. Instead, he huffed out a deep sigh and tried to jiggle some life back into his fingers and arms that were going numb from the freezing cold permeating the underground tunnel.

As he shadowed his Dad, Dean kept thinking on all the hours of research he had put in before going on this hunt and hoped he had been correct in his assumptions. On paper, the facts seemed to add up to something supernatural. Four people had died in the last two years in this stretch of the tunnels. Tunnels that two years ago had been closed to the public before being newly excavated.

Despite the police reports alluding to a serial killer of the alive-and-kicking human variety, Dean thought he knew better having dug up a newspaper article from the 1930's that pointed to the real truth. Percival Hudson, labourer aged thirty-two, married, father of six was accidentally killed when a piece of machinery went haywire, mangling him up and slicing off his head. His spirit now haunted these disused tunnels.

Even now, Dean wondered how 'accidental' and 'beheaded' fitted together logically on the same sentence. What he did know was that over the last two years, Hudson had mutated from a meek family man into one hell of a pissed off spirit, taking his anger out on any poor, unfortunate soul that stumbled into his little pocket of hell.

Hacking into the local police database had offered up some gruesome but telling details, showing that each victim had been killed in the same brutal fashion -- mutilated, gutted and left to die a painful death before being beheaded - supporting a creative streak in the ghost that both fascinated and appalled Dean.

The heads of his victims, all four of them, were yet to be found and Dean figured it was Hudson's trophy taking in the worst possible way.

Dad had worked out a search pattern based on where the victims had been found. It narrowed the area to only a mile radius but it still made up a warren of unmapped tunnels and small pockets of excavation they had to work their way through.

Dean's thoughts kept returning to the lopped off heads waiting to be returned to their rightful but very dead owners and his stomach clenched wondering if the same fate would befall him if he didn't keep his wits about him.

He shuffled again, stamping his feet to get some sensation back, the cold seeping into his bones. As the night dragged on, he heard his Dad whisper over to him, "You holding up okay there, sport?"

"It's cold enough to freeze a baboon's ass blue," said Dean in return, trying to still the chatter of his teeth, hands firmly tucked into his arms pits in a desperate bid to leach some warmth into them.

John smirked at the imagery, "You know it dips close to freezing down here at night."

Dean grinned in return. "Say, Dad at exactly what temperature do the family jewels up and die on ya?"

There was no reply; only the distinctive sound of a shotgun being cocked and Dean looked tentatively down the tunnel to see what had his Dad on high alert.

A vague form hovered in the darkness twenty yards away, grey in tone but not substantial enough to make out any features.

John threw a look a cautionary look at his son and nodded his satisfaction when he saw any thoughts of the cold dismissed as he trained his own gun with steady hands at the apparition.

Confident that his son had himself in hand and therefore had his back, John stepped away from the tunnel wall and made himself an easy target for the ghoul.

A moan came down the tunnel, low in pitch, rumbling through the bricks and mortar, and John's skin prickled as the temperature dipped and the air turned frigid.

Squinting against the darkness, John's top lip lifted in snarl of disapproval. Death hadn't treated Hudson kindly; flesh mottled and rotten stretched too thin so that it left bone exposed in gashes on his face.

John heard a gagging nose coming from his son as the rank smell of death wafted down the tunnel; he hoped the boy's stomach wouldn't betray him. He needed Dean to keep his focus and not let anything distract him. Both their heads were counting on it.

Dark, hoodless eyes rested on John, and slowly the ghost's head cocked slightly to one side as parchment thin skin stretched into a mimic of smile. It was a greeting of sorts, as ghost and man assessed each other, neither one of them readying to back down.

John took a step forwards, initiating contact in typical Winchester style with a cocky greeting. "You're one ugly looking bastard, Percy. I figure its time to cancel your sorry ass and send you to whatever afterlife awaits you."

Dean's admiration for his father grew exponentially as he challenged the ghost without even a hint of fear. He wanted some of his father's courage for his own, as he struggled to dampen down his own terror bubbling away like acid in his gut.

He may have been on a few hunts before but nothing this freaking scary. Not when it was just him and his dad and a few rounds of rocksalt to keep them safe.

Tipping a head out of the recess in the tunnel wall Dean had hunkered into, he took a closer look at their quarry. The picture of the pock-faced man on some faded 1930's rag were at odds with the terrifying visage facing down his Dad. He looked rank, smelt rank and Dean was left praying under his breath that this would be their first and final encounter with Hudson.

He didn't think his stomach could take a second visit.

As he tried to keep his hand steady and the gun pointed, Dean was just thankful that his little brother was safely tucked up in a nice warm bed, safe and sound, as far as way from this nightmare as humanly possible.

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

Sam had learned to dread night time.

During the day things were almost normal. Just endless hours of enforced bible studies and mindless chores. He could deal with that. Could switch off and just count the seconds in his head until his brother's return.

But the nights always turned into a waking nightmare, full of Mrs Doyle's drunken ranting so that he could hardly process or understand what she was demanding of him anymore.

He was beyond desperate in his need for sleep and just wanted her to go away; drink enough to pass out like his Dad did when he went on the odd bender and just leave him the hell alone.

Mrs Doyle, for her own part, found Sam's resistance frustrating. She couldn't understand why the boy was so stubborn, fighting her night after night. Her own children would have given in after the first verbal berating, never mind _beating,_ but this boy kneeling besides her was still playing her for a fool. He was only pretending to listen to her words of advice, never offering any prayer to save his soul.

Catching sight of his head sagging again down towards his chest, she shook Sam's slim shoulder. "Come on you can't sleep, Samuel. Satan finds you in your dreams, whispers dark and terrible things to lure you down to hell if you let him. Pray to the Lord to keep you protected under the safety of his fatherly love."

"I'm tired," whispered Sam honestly in response.

The sickly smell of alcohol wafted over him as Mrs Doyle leant in. "You're tired? Do you think I'm not tired? But you've got to be prepared, know true penance before I can present you to Father Hennessy. He'll ask questions of you, test your faith, before he'll allow me to petition to have you baptised."

"I don't care," grumbled back Sam, squirming as his back ached and his knees burned from kneeling for so long. "Don't need some old dude in a collar to wash my sins away."

The heavy cuff around his head drew him up straight biting down on his lip to stop a cry escaping. He had learned to swallow down the pain and ignore the buzzing in his ears each time she smacked him around the head. It only encouraged her to hit him again if he voiced his pain.

"You will learn the meaning of faith."

Every night, Dean's parting words were a silent mantra running in his head. _What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. _If the widow wanted him to have faith, it was always going to be in his brother.

"s'okay, Dean always sees me safe. Knows what's best..."

Incensed at the resistance in the boy, the woman hissed at Sam. "You risk letting Satan worm his way into your soul with your thoughts, boy. Might be wise to beat the rot out of you once and for all?"

The eight-year-old bowed his head, remembering how his Dad had agreed to her threats of physical punishment with a telling laugh. "No, ma'am. I'm just really tired. Please, if I could just sleep then tomorrow I can think a little clearer."

"Tomorrow may be too late, child. It was too late for my wee Kathleen. "

"I'm sorry about your loss. Honest."

Mrs Doyle looked at him with tears in her eyes, the formidable woman of a moment ago had softened to caress the crown of his head with gentler fingers. "My sweet baby girl will never know a mother's love again. Still for you, if you let me save you, I can give your mother back to you."

Sam sucked in a desperate breath at the mention of a woman he longed to know. Mrs Doyle took in his reaction and added, "I know lad. The loss, its unbearable isn't it?!

Shaking his head in denial, Sam answered with a shaky voice. "I never knew her. It's not the same me missing her. Not like it is for my Dad or for Dean."

"And yet your brother, despite his scallywag ways, will get to meet with her again in Heaven whilst you will be forever lost to her if we don't take action now. It doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"I don't know," admitted Sam his confusion clear on his face. "Just because Dad doesn't do the whole church thing doesn't make him wrong."

Mrs Doyle shook her head sadly, "But he did before you're Mam passed away, didn't he? He was wise enough to have your brother baptised and yet with you…it's almost as if…"

"Don't," whispered Sam desperately trying to block out the insinuations coming out of the widow's mouth. "He does what's best for me. I know he does."

"Ah, Samuel your young eyes are blinkered, seeing only what you want with your Da. Is it truly worth risking your chance at heaven all because of one man's sinful pride?"

Confused yet again by her change of mood, Sam struggled to know how to put her words into context or with any honesty. After suffering at her hands the last three nights, it was a respite moment when the zealot inside her softened to reveal almost motherly affection.

Sensing his confusion, Mrs Doyle tried to drive her point home. "You know we can undo the damage done by this godless life you've led. Mold you into a better image other than that shiftless brother of yours you seem hell bent on mirroring."

At the mention of his brother, Sam shook his head. "My brother is the best, and I'm proud if you think I'm anything like him."

"Ha, your brother is a little beast that the Devil himself would dance in hell with given half the chance."

Her words were a trigger of open defiance, washing away the lassitude that had started to cloud his thinking and Sam spat angrily back, "You can say as many means things that you want but no one will ever make me think bad of my brother. Not ever."

Sam watched her stagger slightly under his words, his eyes latching onto the way her hand snatched up the bottle by the bedside cabinet. "You're the one with a problem, not Dean."

The slight hit home, hating to have her own personal demons exposed, it triggered a furious reaction in the woman. Gentleness forgotten, she snaked cruel fingers into his hair and jerked his head up to meet her hard stare.

"You dare to judge me? You ungrateful brat - I ought to wash your mouth out with bleach!"

Sam hissed out his pain as he was tugged up off his knees and onto his feet. Personal anger took over from fear at the manhandling and he squirmed furiously against her touch. "Let me go or I'll swear I'm gonna tell my Dad just how crazy you are."

Mrs Doyle laughed out confidently, still keeping her fingers curled tight into his hair as she shook him again. "Your daddy is going to _thank_ me for sorting you out. Deep down you know he left you here for a reason. He wants me to relieve him of a _burden_ that he's let hang round his neck like a millstone all your life."

Sam choked back a sob, wondering at the truth of her words. Was he really such a burden to his Dad? Defeat threatened to swamp him and Sam slumped his shoulders and Mrs Doyle smiled knowingly at his capitulation. Her own boys had learned the hard way under her hand and were all the better for it in time. Sam, too, would find the truth of this eventually. That's if John stayed away long enough for her to break the child's stubborn will.

Fingers uncurled from his hair to trail slowly down the side of his face in an almost motherly fashion as Mrs Doyle took in his supplication. Her chin came to rest atop of his head, and she slurred into his hair, "You have to stop fighting me or you'll let the Devil win. If I have to I will beat the love of God in one stroke and the Devil out with the next."

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

Father Callum Hennessy normally enjoyed his brandy after a supper at Mrs Doyle's. It was a Wednesday night ritual, meeting up with the widow after her husband had died and unlike some he truly enjoyed her company. She was a link to his old life back in Ireland, and with her sharp wit and equally sharp tongue, she always offered up an evening of interesting repartee.

Tonight though the enjoyment of the brandy was negated by the acid indigestion he was experiencing after an evening of brow beating from his old friend.

Not for the first time that evening, he was forced to refuse her request. "You know, if the boy is to be baptised it is his father's responsibility to arrange this. The Church doesn't look kindly on its priest kidnapping young children to facilitate such an action."

When he saw the widow's eyes narrow in argument he put out a warning hand, "Monsignor Beauchamp would ship my backside so to the far side of the world I wouldn't even have time to pack a spare set of undies."

The tall woman face pinched in annoyance as she still tried to get her point across, "We both know what's at risk here, Callum. Limbo awaits that boy. _Limbo_. I won't have him suffer that fate. I just won't."

Sighing out his own frustration, Father Hennessy tried to a find a middle ground with the woman. "If you think it will help, I can come round on Friday and speak to Sam's father. Maybe with a two pronged attack we might be able to persuade him to rethink his position."

"Fool of a man would sooner see his child lost forever than ever admit he was wrong." She paused in thought, her eyes suddenly bright as if an epiphany had occurred. "You know, the ideal solution for them all is if he just left Samuel with me and took off with his other boy. At least then the child would remain safe and I could do what's right for him. Raise him in the Faith and keep in on the straight and narrow."

"Ah no now, Bernadette, that's a huge responsibility to be taking on for yourself." Father Hennessy almost added 'at your age' but bit back the remark. He knew the woman had her pride and the question of her age was one of them.

The chime of the old grandfather clock in the hallway sounded the lateness of the hour and before the conversation could turn into open warfare the priest took that as his cue to make his exit.

As he shrugged on his jacket, Hennessy remarked candidly, "I know what a breath of fresh air it must be having the boy board with you Bernadette, but it isn't the same as having him permanently. He has a family that will want him back."

The widow drew herself onto her feet, her mind now made up on what needed to be done. "Some family that is, Callum. I know for a fact that John leaves his boys alone for days on end. We both know the dangers out there for such vulnerable children...what truly waits out there in the dark."

The priest frowned, wondering what sort of man would take such risk with a boy as young as the one asleep upstairs. "But you said he has an older brother that looks after him when his Dad is gone?"

The woman's top lipped curled in disdain, "His brother is barely into his teens and he's a bad 'un to boot. He leads Samuel astray every chance he gets. Why do you think me so worried for the wee lad?"

His own alarm now triggered, Hennessy found himself offering his help. "I tell you what, I'll have a quiet word with Councillor Brown at the parish meeting tomorrow night. See if he can suggest anything to help you out here. He has some useful contacts in Social Services if needs be..."

"Ah, Callum I don't want it to come to that. I just want the boy safe with me. Get Councillor Brown to drop by to talk to me personally and I am sure we can get something sorted out privately. He owes me a favour or too and will be most accommodating, and hopefully with your sweet persuasion and the Lords guidance we'll get young Samuel sorted out whether Johnny Winchester likes it or not."

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

Bernadette Doyle had paced the room, drink in hand after Father Hennessy left, her thoughts swirling in her head. She knew what she planned would end her friendship with John Winchester but she couldn't, in good conscience, let him keep on risking his youngest boy the way he had been dong.

As a hunter, he should know better, but he seemed to want to thumb his nose up to God every chance he got, and damn his youngest son in the process.

Half a bottle of brandy later she slipped back into Sam's room and stood at the foot of his bed studying her young charge. The stubborn streak that ran through him, that shone out of defiant eyes when awake was gone, and all she saw was a young boy worth saving.

As if growing alert to her presence, Sam shifted on the bed, and the widow held her breath. She tottered a little closer, her eyes sweeping over the eight-year-old, marvelling at how angelic he looked asleep. Dark lashes resting on pale cheeks with his mess of golden brown hair fanned out on his pillow like a halo around his head.

"Still innocent enough, Samuel," she whispered sadly. "But not for long if your brother and Da get their hands on yer again..."

The temptation to reach out and run her fingers through the splay of silken locks was stilled when she remembered the child awake. How the halo of hair turned into a shield, keeping rebellious eyes unseen. Blocking her out.

She needed rid of it if she was ever going to win the battle of wills. Time was running out if she was to claim him as her own before his dad turned up on the doorstep and tried to snatch him back..

Fingers dug into a slim shoulder and the woman shook Sam awake, her voice belying the urgency behind it. "Get up. Get up now."

Sam's eyes snapped open and he groaned out his disbelief, "Don't you ever sleep, Mrs Doyle?"

"For sure there'll be time enough to sleep when I'm six feet under," answered the widow as she tugged him up onto his feet. "Now, come on."

Sam's senses started to scream in alert. He tried to struggle out of her grip but the fingers circling his bicep were like steel. Grimacing at the pain he was forced to ask, "We're we going?"

Without shortening her stride, Doyle answered, "Down to the kitchen, I need me some scissors."

Sam frowned, wondering why on earth the woman would need scissors at this late hour.

He got his answer as she mumbled under her breath, "You need a short back and sides, like my boys had. Can't have you baptised only to end up looking like some drowned sewer rat."

Sucking in a breath of alarm, Sam struggled in her grip. "Let me go! No way I'm gonna let you get anywhere near me with freaking scissors!"

Mrs Doyle tottered slightly as he pulled again against her grip and she hissed back, "Wilful pride and vanity, that's what this is about." Grabbing a handful of Sam's hair she shook him so hard tears came to his eyes. "I'll have you rid of this. Taking your focus away from what I'm trying to teach you."

"No, all you're teaching me is that you're a mean drunk," snapped back Sam, finally yanking free with a mighty shove that propelled her back a step on unsteady legs. Rubbing at his tender scalp, Sam's chest heaved in both anger and panic.

"Watch your mouth, or I'll shut it for you," warned the woman, hating that her own weakness was being thrown back at her once again. Distractedly, she picked off her finger the silken strands of hair that she had torn out his head and added darkly. "You bring all this on yourself, young man. I won't take such disrespect under my roof."

Sam wasn't ready to back down, and spat back bitingly, "You're just a bitter old woman who drove her own kids as far away from you and this stupid house the first chance they got. And I don't blame them, cos' I hate you just as much as they must do..."

His words hit their mark and wiry fingers snatched at him in a vicious grip and, once again, he found himself being dragged towards the stairwell. "I told yer to shut your gobby little mouth or so help me I'll crack you so hard you'll need your jaw wiring,"

"Let me go," Sam hollered out, trying once more to get free but finding no purchase as he tried to dig his heels into the carpet as they reached the stairs.

It seemed almost comical the way it happened. The drunken woman misjudging her step and walking out onto empty air, missing the top step completely. Her balance thrown, gravity pulled her forwards and she went down, taking Sam with her.

Sam's cry of alarm was caught in his throat as felt himself falling with the widow. The untidy tumble down the flight of stairs happened so fast he only felt the moment of impact with the marble floor at the bottom that sent a jarring pain through his head and body.

Stunned, his world went black, that not even the screams of the injured woman besides him could keep him from falling into.

TBC

_**I know a long wait between chapters – and totally all my fault as I kept screwing up my postings to Carocali – who has the patience of a saint and the skill to weave magic where a bare earthed rug once was! **_


	4. Chapter 4

Usual disclaimers apply. RL has stunk bigtime and (hangs head in shame) I have yet to play catch up in saying my thanks to all who have reviewed. Everyone has been appreciated – helping this lardy asd writer to type just a little faster. Again also my heartfelt thanks to Carocali whose sharp eye and telling comments has whipped this chapter into readable shape. Rozzy

**Chapter 4 – Robert Singer ain't never been anyone's fool!**

Dean ran, his heart pounding loud in his chest, desperate to keep up with the longer stride of his father. He was both exhilarated and scared shitless, but the buzz was winning over the fear as he followed after the more experienced hunter.

John Winchester could hear his oldest behind him and was satisfied he was able to keep up. Getting separated at this late stage of a hunt could prove fatal, especially as Hudson had upped the ante by trying to bring the tunnel roof down on them only minutes before.

"We're getting too close for comfort, son." John barked over his shoulder with a bright telling smile.

"Yeah, Dad, but whose _comfort _are we actually talking about here?" snapped back Dean nervously.

John drew to a halt as the grey apparition slithered into solid rock, and he cocked his shotgun at the point where it had disappeared. "Hudson's running scared son."

Dean brushed loose the dirt from his head and shoulders that had been showered on him earlier and grunted his disbelief. "Ya think? That old bastard tried bringing down a whole freaking tunnel on our heads back there, Dad!"

"Almost isn't the same as actual." John looked down at his boy with a knowing grin. He was having fun despite the circumstances. "We're getting close to what anchors him to this world and he doesn't want us getting anywhere near it, is all."

"Oh goodie!" Dean felt the burn in his throat lessening after his race through the tunnels and admitted, "Just I didn't expect a spook to have the ability to tear down a ton of crap on us, _is all_."

John laughed; a deep rich sound that filled the tunnel as he clamped a hand on his oldest son's shoulder. "You've a lot to learn about this hunting game, kiddo. Hudson is an angry spirit. He doesn't play by any rules but his own. Got to learn to out-fox him and up your end game."

Dean nodded his understanding, revelling in his Dad's affection. It had been an age since he'd felt such warmth and with that unbidden touch, he knew he had called it right by going on this hunt with him. "That's why I'm here -- to learn from the best."

"And you're doing just fine, son," smiled back John. His hand held his son's shoulder for another long lingering second before he let go, and he returned his focus back on hunt.

With sharp eyes, John let his fingers trace over loose brickwork before he tossed a look back to his skilful protégée, "Heads up, Dean, time to put an end to Hudson and his macabre head fetish."

Dean groaned, "I wish you'd stop using that word, Dad. "It's kinda freaking me out."

John looked down at his son, his deadpan face masking his amusement as he asked, "Head? Is that what's spooking you out here, Son?"

"Yeah, as in I want to hold on to my own. Sammy's expecting us back without anything missing, if you get my drift."

Dean's eyes darkened, thinking on his brother and a sigh escaped. He missed Sam with all his annoying observations and mannerisms. That much the last four days had taught him. Not having his little brother by his side was almost like a physical loss and he wondered if his Dad felt the same.

John, as if sensing where his son's heart and thoughts were at, nodded his understanding. "I know where your head is at, Dean, but we have a job to do here. The sooner we get it finished the sooner we get back to Fort Wayne. Stop worry about your brother, he's doing just fine with Bernadette. She won't let anything happen to him."

"She better not, Dad!" warned Dean darkly.

**o0o0o0o0o**

Raising his forehead off the cold flooring, Sam tried to make sense of why it felt so heavy or why there was a marching band playing up a storm inside of it. Wincing, he rubbed at a sore spot above his right temple, feeling a small lump that hinted at a painful meet of skull and marble flooring.

Blurry eyed, he instinctively whispered for the only person who always made things right; who he knew would put an end to his headache. "Dean?"

When there wasn't the familiar response, Sam couldn't hide his disappointment and let his too heavy forehead slip the two inches back on to the floor with soft thud. Dean wasn't here and he was all on his own.

The cold against his skin was a welcome relief and Sam would have carried on resting there but save for someone calling out his name. It wasn't Dean, that much he knew, the voice to watery and thin. If it wasn't Dean calling for him then he couldn't really be bothered to listen and irritably he batted a weak hand in the air to shoo the sound away, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep again.

The thin voice turned to a holler, and sleep became impossible. Letting out a groan, Sam opened his eyes, thinking it peculiar that the world seemed so skewed from the horizontal angle he viewed it at.

Sam heard someone calling his name again, with an urgency about it that couldn't be ignored. Tiredly, he pulled himself up on to his elbows wondering why most of his bones felt like jelly and every part of him felt bruised and battered. It felt like he had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson and lost every round.

Then the events of last night played out in slow motion in his head. A reel of disjointed images; being dragged out of bed by an alcohol-fuelled Mrs Doyle whose plans for a short back and sides had truly terrified him. He could remember fighting back; trying to get away before things got out of hand and they ended facing planting themselves at the foot of the stairs.

Swallowing back bile Sam knew he was lucky that the widow hadn't killed him.

As he tried to assess the damage done, it was his throbbing head and sore left wrist that seemed to make themselves known above any other hurt. Cautiously, he rotated his wrist, tender and a little swollen, but thankfully not broken. A little sprained he figured, having done the same with his right sparring with Dean a month ago when he got a little too rough house.

Then, for the first time, he noticed the lazy sunshine dappling the hallway; telling him that night had turned into morning, and that he must have slept through the transition. Confused as to how long he had been allowed to lay there, his thoughts returned to the widow. The Mrs Doyle of last night would have dragged him up and shaken him awake, screaming blue murder, rather than let him rest like this.

Her absence sent a shiver of worry through him – even now the old witch could be in the kitchen rooting around for the scissors she had been threatening to scalp him with. Panic turned to action and he scrambled up onto his knees, ignoring the wave of nausea washing over him with the movement. The last thing he wanted to be was to be left lying vulnerable on the floor if the old witch came at him with scissors.

A hoarse whisper called out Sam's name again and he turned his head towards the sound, familiarity making him freeze. _Mrs Doyle._ Anticipation of another temper-fuelled encounter vanished the moment he took in her broken form and a gasp of shock escaped.

Mrs Doyle lay stiffly propped up against the foot of the banister rail, her skin bleached white from pain.

Her head was bloodied, crimson stains drying on her temple and cheek, but what made Sam gasp out loud was the sight of her left leg. The brilliant whiteness of shin bone protruded through traumatised tissue, blood pooling to stain the floor underneath.

"Holy shit!" whispered Sam out loud, any thought to his language forgotten as he continued to gaze in appalled fascination at the damaged limb.

His own aches and pain were forgotten as years of being John Winchester's son took over and he got himself over to Mrs Doyle in a few unsteady strides. "Oh Jeez, you've busted your leg good and proper Mrs Doyle..."

Filmy eyes clouded by pain heard his words and the woman snaked out a hand to grip his wrist, fiercely pulling him down to kneel besides her, "No thanks to you, Sam Winchester. You almost killed me, you young hooligan."

"Me? I, no… I didn't do this to you..." denied Sam eyes wide in surprise at her accusation. Any fuzziness in his head evaporating at her words. "You were drunk and fell down the stairs. Remember?"

Mrs Doyle juddered at the implication behind his statement and her voice, tremulous with the pain, admitted, "All I wanted to do was help you boy, and this is my reward." She passed a shaky hand over her broken leg. "If you hadn't fought against me, this wouldn't have happened."

Sam pulled away from her hold and stood up tall, defiance on his face, not willing to play the fall guy for her mistakes. "You act crazy, crazy things happen. You did this to yourself. Not me!"

Mrs Doyle's looked up at him shocked by the coldness in his too mature voice. "Samuel?"

Sam eyes travelled back up the stairs and he added tellingly, "You're lucky we didn't break both our necks. With all that stuff about the Devil and saving my soul, you would have pushed me into so-called freaking Limbo all by yourself."

The implication hit the woman hard and her face crumpled and the self justification for her actions went with it. "Oh, sweet Jesus, no...never that. To think I could have... Oh Lord forgive me..."

Guilt ate away at her and she shot out her arm to reach him again but the movement swung her broken body forwards and a sharp cry of pain followed.

The need for blame vanished as Sam took in her distress and he grabbed at her hand to comfort her. "Shush, don't move, Mrs Doyle. I'll get help, call 9-11"

Noticing how she was shivering, Sam guessed she was going into shock, it didn't help he figured that she had been lying helpless on the cold floor for so long.

Rubbing back the thump gnawing away in his temples, Sam stood up, "I'll get something to make you comfortable first. Okay?"

He didn't wait for a response and headed for the living room and grabbed up some cushions and an old woollen throw the widow liked to wrap around her legs at night.

Before he headed back, he picked up the phone; his need to call his Dad overwhelming no matter how far away he might be. His father would know how to sort out this mess and tell him what to do next.

When he got only an automated message saying his cell was out of range, Sam swallowed back his disappointment and he headed back to the widow. Arms full.

"I tried calling Dad but he's out of range," he murmured sadly to the woman as he dropped the cushions in a soft thud to the floor. "He would have known what to do better than I do."

She nodded her understanding, her face contorting in agony as he slid the cushions behind her back, only for it to soften as the support gave her immediate relief from the pain gnawing away in her hip.

Sam's eyes travelled down to the open fracture and he chewed on his bottom lip, wondering if he should do something about her leg before help arrived. Uncertainty won out, deciding to leave it to more professional hands, as he draped the throw around her.

His touch, however lightly given, was a comfort to the woman, and she threw him a rueful smile. "Thank you, Samuel. Any woman would be happy to call you son, including this foolish old woman."

The praise made him duck his head feeling a little ashamed of his harsh words of earlier, "I'll call 9-11. They can fix this."

"Wait up, child," demanded Mrs Doyle, eyes watering as she fought against the pain. "Call Father Hennessy first."

Sam shook his head in disquiet, "But you're hurt, Mrs Doyle. You need a hospital."

"Please, Samuel, I need to talk to the Father first."

**o0o0o0o0o**

Dean shifted the weight from one foot to the other trying to keep the feeling in his toes. His Dad had been pulling the thick partition wall apart brick by brick for the last hour and he had been left sidelined to just watching. The inactivity had left him half frozen.

"How much longer, Dad?" asked Dean, cringing inwardly at hearing the whine in his voice.

John huffed out his irritation, "Jesus! could you sound anymore like your little brother right now, Dean?"

The blush crept up Dean's neck to redden his cheeks, hating the comparison to Sam whose ability to wind up their father with just a few words were legendary.

**o0o0o0o0o**

"Sorry, Sir."

John turned his head and took a long look at his son and a sigh escaped. The boy appeared close to freezing, the layers of clothing he wore not able to offset the subzero degree conditions in the tunnels. "Look, why don't you take a turn. Might keep you focused to be of some use here."

"Really? Awesome! Thanks, Dad," beamed back Dean the cold forgotten as he stepped up to the wall.

John held in check his own smile, his boy was just so eager to please and it felt good to be at the receiving end of it.

A gruff voice hid his emotions as he said, "Just remember to pull the bricks out one by one and for Christ sake just make sure the whole damn wall doesn't came down around you. We just want enough space to get to the other side if we're going to have any chance at getting to Hudson."

"Sure thing, Sir," answered Dean as he tried to lever out his first brick with the crowbar that had been handed to him. It was harder than he thought, chipping away at the old cement and filling that kept the bricks in place. His Dad had made it look so easy that he was soon cussing under his breath.

John stood back, on guard, though with a smirk on his face as he lightly teased, "Put some backbone into it, Dean, didn't think I was raising some pansy-assed girl all these years!"

Dean grunted out a dark response and a brick flew free, and triumphantly he held it up high for inspection. "Got the little sucker!"

"Good work, son. Now you've only got another thirty or so to shift by my reckoning."

Dean gulped, swallowing back a sarcastic comment. He wanted this, to be part of his Dad's world and having to use more than a little bit of elbow grease wasn't going to put him off. Not one little bit.

Titling his head to his Dad as he managed to lever off the next brick he asked, "Why don't we just get a stick of dynamite and blow a hole in the freaking wall. It will be a lot quicker, don't ya think?"

"Sure thing, though best you call in advance the Coroner's office for the body bags cos' that how we'd be taken out of here."

Dean cocked an eyebrow of disbelief at him and John added, "These tunnels are not structurally sound. You shove some nitro into the walls and the whole place is coming down around our ears."

"So, its brick by freaking brick?"

"You've got it. You have to learn to have patience if you're going to be any good as a hunter. Patience and learning to keep a wise head on your shoulder."

"Gee thanks, Dad, you with the whole head thing again!" came back Dean sourly, gingerly feeling his collar.

**o0o0o0o0o**

"Hello, Father Hennessy here."

Sam gabbled out his words, "Mrs Doyle fell down the stairs. Broke her leg and she needs you to get here fast."

"What on earth! Is that you, Samuel?"

"Yeah," answered Sam before adding, "She won't let me call for an ambulance… not till she sees you first."

"Why on earth not?" asked the priest before quickly changing his mind. "Never mind I know how stubborn that woman is. Can I speak to her, son?"

"Yeah sure, here you go," Sam readily agreed as he shoved the phone into the widow's hand. "Father Hennessy wants to talk to you."

She sniffed back her tears and her voice wobbled, "Callum…thank the Lord."

"Sam said you fell down the stair. How bad is it Bernadette?"

"My leg is broken and I think my hip too…." she stopped, her voice breaking with the pain. "I need you here, Callum."

"Okay, Bernie, I'll come straight over. But why haven't you let the boy call for an ambulance?"

Mrs Doyle shook her head, her face paling as the movement sent stabbing pains thorough her lower extremities, "Remember what we talked about last night? Child Services is going take Samuel away for sure now unless you get here and take him first."

There was a moment of silence before the priest confessed, "I can't do that Bernadette. You know how bad it will look for me, alone with a boy his age."

"But, Callum…."

"No. It won't work. Have you tried calling his father to get him to come back and pick him up?"

"Sam did already but there's no answer. Knowing John, we'll be lucky to see him the right side of Sunday." She stifled back another groan of pain, her eyes watering. "You know, once the child is in the system things happen…"

"And you know how much of a scandal it will cause if I just upped and took that lad home with me. The Church has enough lawsuits on its hands as it stands."

She knew what he was hinting at and her pain intensified. "So, because of a few sick individuals we have to risk this child's soul and well being?"

"Bernadette, it will only be for a few days and I can keep track of him, makes sure he goes to a good foster home. It won't be so bad for the lad."

Her breath came out in painful puffs. "I told you last night I won't let Samuel fall through the cracks. Whether it be Child Services or his father's inattention, the boy is well on the path to ruin."

"You need to stay calm, Bernie. I'll be with you in ten minutes and we can try and sort something out then. Okay?"

"Ten minutes!" huffed back the widow in disbelief. "You'll be breaking every traffic law there is if you manage to do that, Cal."

"There shouldn't be much traffic this time of the morning, so if I run every red light from the parish to you house - ten minutes it is!"

Despite her pain the old woman smile, "Anyone ever tell you have the Devil himself in ya at times Callum Hennessy."

"Only you, my old friend, only you!"

**o0o0o0o0o**

Panic had shot through Sam like a bolt of electricity at hearing the widow say the two little words that he had learned to dread above all others: _Child Services._

All his life, it'd been drummed into his head that it was the closest thing to hell on earth and had to be avoided at all costs. If Sam let them get a hold of him he might never see his Dad or brother again. He knew once the priest got here, things would be put into motion that he would have no control over.

Ten minutes, that's what the widow had said before Hennessy turned up. That left him with less than nine minutes to get a plan together to make sure he didn't end up in an even worse hell than the widow's home.

Sam forgot about his aches and bruises and flew up the stairs two at time. When he got back to his room, he threw on some clothes, hastily shoving the remainder of his belongings into his backpack before racing back down to the ground floor.

He paused when he reached the bottom of the stairs to take another look at the barely conscious widow. Despite everything that had played out, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She was shivering in shock and pain, the anaesthetic of alcohol having worn off totally now.

Remembering how dehydrated his Dad got after a bender, he headed of the kitchen to get a glass of water before he left. That one small comfort Sam could afford to give he reckoned as he continued to count down the seconds in his head.

His trip to the kitchen proved useful as he acquired a small carving knife and a tub of salt to shove in his bag. He also found the money the widow had left in an old candy tin that his father had given her. It didn't feel like stealing he reasoned, as the money had been left for his care and the widow was hardly able to do that now.

Feeling a little more confident, Sam returned to Mrs Doyle and left the glass of water and the phone within easy reach. Tucking the comforter up to her chin he whispered softly, "I'm sorry you got hurt, Mrs Doyle. I have to go now before the government people turn up."

A hand reached out for him but he jumped back wary of getting trapped, "Help is coming. You'll be fixed up soon enough."

Mrs Doyle lifted her head, eyes rummy with pain. "Don't leave, Samuel. I know things got out of hand, but you have to stay. Father Hennessy said he'd watch out for you."

Sam shook his head. "Dean always said we have to run if Social Services ever turned up on the doorstep and I aim to do just like he said."

"And go where?" demanded the woman, shifting her weight in a lean towards him despite the flare of agony it invoked from her broken leg and hip, "Your Da isn't answering his phone and won't be coming back for a few days, if even then. You can't just hide out till then, it's not safe. All sort of things are out there waiting for a boy like you, Samuel."

Taking another step back he answered confidently as he swung his backpack over his shoulder, "I'll ring Pastor Jim. He'll sort something out."

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

Callum Hennessy quirked an eyebrow in surprise at seeing the front door ajar, but stepped quickly inside anxious to get to his friend. He found her sobbing softly at the foot of the stairs, propped up by cushions and wrapped in a grey blanket.

Racing to her side, he knelt down and lifted her chin up and flinched on seeing such raw pain in her eyes. "Ah, Bernadette what the hell happened to you?"

"I made a mistake, got over anxious for the child…and now I've ruined everything."

Pulling back the comforter, the priest's face froze at the sight, "Sweet Joseph and Mary, this is a bad break."

The priest reached down and picked up the phone by her side and quickly called for an ambulance. "They'll be here soon enough, Bernie, just hang on."

"He wouldn't stay with me. I begged him not to leave me here alone, but he wouldn't stay…" she whispered back teary eyed.

The priest frowned, noticing Sam's absence with a shiver running like ice down his spine. "Sam. Samuel?"

The woman shook her head again, fresh tears flowing, latching onto his wrist with frigid fingers. "Fool boy wouldn't listen to me. Never did. Not ever."

Hennessy's heart sank as he digested the implication behind her words. "Where'd the wee lad go, Bernie?"

Wiping a hand over her wet eyes, she shook her head, "Gone off to meet up with that charlatan Pastor Murphy he's so fond off."

"And where does this Pastor live?"

"Blue Earth, Minnesota."

The priest rocked on the balls of his feet, an exhale of surprise escaping, "For Petesake, the boy is only eight-years-old! How on earth does he think he's going to get all the way to Minnesota?"

She sighed knowingly, "He's the son of a hunter, Callum. Boy is clever smart despite his young years. I figure maybe he'll get the Pastor to come get him and even take him on to his Da. If not, he'll make his way to Minnesota."

"Bloody hell, this is a real mess, Bernadette. What do I tell Child Services now?" asked the shaken man. "We have a missing boy who isn't even in the system. Legally where do we stand here? Do I call Child Services or the police first?"

The widow shook her head, tears drying as she reconciled herself to losing Sam. "Not much we can do now. Leave the authorities out of this. Any chance I had of keeping him gone. His dad will have him back and ruin whatever good is inside of him."

The Father shook his head. "Bernadette, I can't in good conscience keep quiet and not say anything to the authorities. How can I just let a boy go off like this knowing all the dangers out there?"

"The police will never catch him. John will have trained him too well for that. He'll get by them and back to that fool Da of his."

"You really think that possible?" asked the priest.

"The boy is stubborn enough to get to the moon and back if he set his mind to it. He'll not let anyone, _anything_, stop him now."

The widow clung hard to the priest as she sadly admitted finally as the truth won out, " I don't know where my mind was at thinking that I would ever be able to keep him. John has too strong a hold on him and poor lad idolizes him so much all he can see his need for him. He's lost to us, Cal, really lost to us."

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

Sam wanted to scream out his frustration as the phone went dead in his hand, the last of his change eaten up without any success. Instead, he sucked in an annoyed breath, fingering away the headache still beating loud in his head before gently putting the receiver back.

All his plans were proving a bust. His Dad's cell still wasn't in range even after half a dozen attempts. As for Pastor Jim, the automatic message saying that he was away at some Seminar till the weekend left him feeling well and truly screwed. He had tried Professor Jennings and even Bobby Singer -- neither were picking up. It was like all of Dad's friends were playing hide and seek at his expense.

Now, he was out of names to call and the panic was starting to set in.

Sam knew his options were thin on the ground, especially with only a slim wad of cash in his pocket, but it didn't negate the fact that he still had to get out of Fort Wayne before the police or Child Services got a hold of him.

It had taken him a full hour of walking, ducking and diving into the shadows every time a police car sped by, to get to the bus depot. Throughout out the long walk, his headache refused to lessen and each and every bruise on his body made itself known. The only thing that made the journey any easier was at least he knew how to get to the station, having passed it on the way to Church on Sunday.

When he walked into the depot, it was surprisingly busy despite the early hour of the morning full of fellow travellers. Sam was able to slink into the booking office without drawing any attention to himself. Cautiously, he looked around, trying to see where all the exits were if he had to make his escape. If he had to walk into the Lion's den, he at least needed to know how to defend himself.

Sam waited a full hour, taking in the bustle of people and the questions they asked before he headed with mock confidence to the first vacant ticket booth. It took him a few polite coughs before a thin-faced, middle-aged man looked his way.

Swallowing back the dryness in his throat Sam asked, "How much is it to Minnesota, please, Sir?"

The ticket master cocked an eyebrow in surprise at him but gave him his answer. Sam mutely nodded his thanks and walked away, his frustration heavy in his gut knowing he didn't have enough cash to purchase a ticket. He could feel the ticket master's eyes tracking after him and his stride lengthened till he was out of sight.

Sam voiced his confusion on leaving the building and sat on a secluded bench. "What do I do, Dean? I know I've gotta get away, cos I don't want to lose you or Dad but they won't let me just buy a ticket all by myself.. I think I'm screwed…."

He was tired, thirsty and more than a little scared but thinking on his brother, on what he might do, gave him back much needed courage. Dean wouldn't let anything stop him from making his escape. Chin squaring in determination Sam figured that if Minnesota was off the list of doable things, he would just have to change track.

He waited patiently for the right moment, loitering at the back of the station for his chance, keeping out of sight of any that looked official. It took another hour before the eight-year-old sucked in a breath as he clocked the ticket office change of staff and as he looked around his eyes narrowed on finding his mark. Big brother had taught him well and skilfully he zeroed in on the elderly man, looking somewhat confused as he tried to work outthe ever changing departure board.

"You okay, mister?" Sam asked innocently. "Know where to board?"

"Eh?" cupped the elderly man, obviously hard of hearing. "Going to see my daughter in Sioux Falls, and they said I had to get bus 27."

Sam looked up the board, a knowing smile lit up his face on seeing his destination. "Well isn't that lucky – it looks like we're going the same direction, Mister. Don't worry, I'll make sure you don't miss your bus."

**o0o0o0o0o0o**

Dean could feel the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades but still grinned silly as he dug out more bricks. The hard labor was worth it as the thick wall was slowly yielding and he had made enough of an in-road so that he could now squeeze his slim shoulders through the gap.

The flashlight perched on the lip of the hole revealed the outlines of a room but not much else; the beam of light not strong enough to cut through the solid blackness.

"Dean, hold up for a moment," demanded John, his nerve ends tingling as the air curled around him in a grey mist before the stench of rotting flesh filled the air.

It was a warning too late as Dean gave a small squeak of surprise before he felt himself being pulled through the hole and away from the safety of his Dad.

"Dean," screamed out John, racing to the hole with his shotgun cocked, his face reflecting his terror at seeing his son being snatched away from him.

"Dean?" he called out again when he got no answer. Panic pulled him into action and he pushed his shoulder into the side of the hole, sending a shower of bricks down around him. It created a large enough space for him to squeeze through, and ignoring the sting on his scalp after taking a sharp hit from a brick, John hauled himself through to the other side.

"Hang on, son, I'm coming," John hollered out again as he got to his feet swinging his flashlight wildly around the small room.

His face soured on finding no trace of his boy and he yelled out a warning to the empty room, "Hudson, you let him go, ya hear me, man. Let my boy go."

His answer was to hear his son screaming. Loudly. For him.

John growled out his inner hurt, having no idea where his son's cries were coming from. Swinging the flashlight beam around the room, he finally had a hint as he spied a small doorway.

Heading towards the sound at a run, he offered up a prayer under his breath, "Please, God, keep my boy safe. Please, I can't lose him too…"

**o0o0o0o0o**

The heavy set rotweiller curled its top lip and growled its threat, before jumping off the hood of the beat up truck. In the dark, its acute senses smelled the intrusion before it appeared and he barked out a series of warnings.

A door to the house opened, flooding the immediate area in a soft halo of light and Bobby Singer stepped out, shotgun in hand.

"Whose ever out there best turn back, now," he commanded in a deep voice, "My dog will tear a chunk or two out of yer! Not been fed since yesterday! Either that or you get filled with buckshot."

His warning was met with a soft giggle and Bobby Singer's eyes bugged out in disbelief at seeing his so-called fierce guard dog. He was licking furiously at the face of a dark-haired child, whilst his docked tail thumped a retreat on the hard ground in delight.

"Well, I'll be a blue-assed fly," Bobby exhaled in surprise. "Sam Winchester, is that you playing silly buggers this time of night?"

Bobby rubbed at his whiskers, confused as to why he hadn't heard the familiar throaty rumble of John's car and he looked past Sam expectantly, his frown growing when it was still only the boy.

_Just what the hell is John Winchester playing at here? Is he that obsessed to be putting his boy through another training exercise at this time of night? _

Pushing the dog off him, Sam stood up eyes wide in alarm at seeing the shogun aimed in his direction and with a quiet voice pleaded, "Please don't fill me with buckshot Bobby. You were the only place I could get to."

Bobby lowered his shotgun, feeling a little sheepish at threatening the boy with it only seconds earlier. He stepped off the porch and pointedly asked, "Where's your daddy and that smart-mouthed brother of yers?"

The boy blinked, losing all color from his face as he admitted, "In Cincinnati, on a hunt."

"Cincinnati?" growled Bobby in disbelief. "You yanking my chain, cos' I ain't finding this funny, kid."

When Sam looked up without a hint of guile, Bobby's face blanched on realising how close he had come to hurting John's youngest.

**o0o0o0o0o**

"Jesus H Christ, you know I could have blown your head clean off yer shoulders, you little idjit. Turning up in the dark like this and all."

Sam shivered, his eyes remained locked on the shotgun as he admitted, "I didn't mean to get here so late, but the bus took forever... I tried calling you from Fort Wayne but there was no answer, so I just took my chances and made my way here. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to spook you."

Bobby lowered his shotgun to let it hang loose again his leg, his mouth dropping open in disbelief. "You got here on a bus from freaking Fort Wayne? All on yer lonesome?"

Mutely, Sam nodded, not sure of his welcome as the man continued to scowl fiercely down at him.

Bobby scratched his head in confusion. "Your daddy know you're here?"

Dipping his head low, Sam gave him his answer. "His cell was out of range and I had to get away. They were going to put me in a home. Dad would have killed me if I let that happen."

Bobby took in a steadying breath, realising that the time for admonishments could come later as the kid looked all but done in. "Best come inside, Sammy. Let's get some chilli in yer belly to warm you up, then you can tell me what the hell's been going on."

Relief washed over Sam and a brief flash of dimples appeared as he gave a shy look up at the man. The fear that had sat heavy on his shoulders that he might be chased away evaporating. "Thanks, Bobby. I didn't know where else to go."

"Just don't sneak in like this again, scaring the crap out of me. Make some noise next time you come a-knocking close to midnight," the older man responded gruffly, his fear for what the boy must have gone through skilfully masked.

When the large rotweiller went to follow after the boy, Bobby scowled down at it, "Git back and do your goddam job. Some freaking guard dog you've turned out to be, as soft as soggy pancakes and about much use to boot."

The dog looked suitably chastised and slunk back to his favored spot near the truck. Dropping like a lead weight, it watched Sam and Bobby enter the house with a soft wuff in the air.

Sam ruefully turned his head at the sound and mouthed a silent good night. A thin smile of relief ghosted across his face as he followed after the older hunter, feeling the tight band of fear that has wrapped itself around his chest all the way from Fort Wayne slowly starting to ease off.

He trusted Bobby, that with him he would be safe till his dad and brother came and got him.

Sam stepped into the cluttered living room and sighed out his happiness at the familiar sight. The place was a mess, with books and charts sitting haphazardly on every surface, taking up the width of the sofa and a lot of the floor space.

Gingerly Sam put down his rucksack on the floor before one stack of ancient looking books and followed after the retreating back of the man into the kitchen, which when he entered was in the same state of disarray.

As if noticing the boy's eyes travel over the mess in judgement Bobby bristled, "Weren't expecting company, if you get my drift."

After the clinical tidiness of Mrs Doyle's house Sam welcomed the difference, "It looks fine to me, Bobby. Better than fine..."

Bobby looked down at his newly acquired lodger and saw the truth in his eyes. Flinching he turned away, hating the way the boy held such power with just a look. It made him uncomfortable to be around him at times. The way he could with just a glance strip a person bare of any emotional pretence.

It was a gift. A gift the youngest Winchester didn't even know he wielded yet here he was looking at him so expectantly, with such trust it twisted Bobby from the inside out hoping that he could measure up to such naked need. All he knew he would have done anything at that moment of time to keep the boy safe, and he was left wondering just how John Winchester had survived eight years of seeing that 'look' and still managed to be such a hard-nosed bastard with the kid at times.

Battling against the affection stirring up inside him for the boy he tersely nodded to the table, "Go sit yerself down Sammy. I'll rustle up some supper and you can tell me all about what made you up sticks to get yer skinny ass to my neck of the woods."

Sam nodded, sinking his sore frame onto the chair with a sigh of appreciation, but as he watched Bobby at the stove warming up some chilli a frown formed and then his stomach knotted in fear. What if Bobby knew Mrs Doyle and he liked and respected her just like his Dad did? Would he be so welcoming if he knew that the woman had ended up hurt because of him, that he had run out on her and left her broken at the foot of the stairs?

Bobby as if alert to his change of mood turned to face him, "So I guess you need to be telling me what made a short-stop like you take off alone from Fort Wayne?"

Gulping softly Sam admitted the truth, "Dad left me there, for a week he said, but then Mrs Doyle got hurt..."

Bobby stiffened before turning back to the pan now starting to bubble its aromatic contents. Stirring it with added vigour he tried to hold in check his anger. "Bernadette Doyle, huh! Your daddy left you with her?"

Nodding Sam said, "He said it would be good for me, that I had to stop being so selfish, holding Dean back from hunting and everything..."

Bobby with his back still to Sam listened to his confession and swallowed back a curse. Trust John Winchester to use his son's guilt to control him and leave him with a total stranger.

Knowing how the widow's mind worked Bobby wondered just how bad a time the boy had with her. He filled a bowl with chilli and put in front of Sam and found himself asking, "Still doesn't tell me why you're here, Sammy."

Sam bit his bottom lip, "She got hurt, busted up her leg and I her heard her talking about Child Services."

"So let me get this straight, that's when you just decided to take off?"

Sam seemed to shrink under the harshness of his tone, "I didn't mean for her to get hurt. Honest Bobby. I know you're her friend and all but please don't be mad at me. Please don't make me go...not tonight."

Bobby snaked out a hand to hold the boy's shoulder in a fierce grip, "That's enough Sam. I ain't gonna be chucking you out, you foolish pup. That freaky bitch Doyle is a lot of things but one thing she's never been to me is a friend."

Eyes rounding in surprise Sam gasped out, "But I thought... it just seemed as if everyone liked her." He paused before adding tellingly, "Except Dean. And now me, I guess."

"That old battleaxe might be able to wrap soft headed idjits around her little finger like candy sugar, but Robert Singer ain't never been anyone's fool!" The hunter paused before sniffing drly, "Something your daddy might want to learn."

Sam sucked in a tremulous breath, eyes bright as relief swept over him, that he wasn't going to face fresh censorship from Bobby.

Bobby took a step back, away from those took expressive eyes, hating to see how close to breaking the child had been. Swallowing back his discomfort, he dropped a spoon onto the table and ordered, "You just eat up, Sammy. We can sort this mess out later."

**_TBC_**

**_Feedback always warmly welcomed, despite my tardy response status!_**

**_PS. I sort of fiddled with parts of this chapter so any mistakes are all mine (sorry Caroline..!!)_**


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